The Unforgiven Ones
by greysw
Summary: John had no one: no family, no friends. He clung to the priest because he had nowhere else to go, but as their strange friendship grew, so did his hatred for the rest of humanity... until he changed the fate of two civilizations. An AU for The Plan.
1. The Genocide Prayer

**The Unforgiven Ones**

"If someone does not have a good father, he should acquire one." - Friedrich Nietzsche (trans. Helen Zimmern), _Human, All Too Human_

"We were so sure / We were so wrong

Now it's over but there's no one left to see / And there's no one left to die

There's only _M.E._..." - Gary Numan, "M.E."

**I. The Genocide Prayer**

John Cavil saw his mother for the first and last time in a titty bar on Picon.

It was exactly the sort of place she'd have liked: small, smoky, and more than a little sleazy, full of cheap women and cheaper booze. Human, in short. The cloying stench of humanity was thick in the air. It made Cavil want to leave, but he couldn't. She was here.

"Are you a priest?" she asked him, after he'd finally introduced himself. Sort of.

He laughed. "Would it matter?"

He already knew that it wouldn't. Ellen Tigh had always been pious, in all ways but one.

"Maybe," she purred. "Are you here to grant me... absolution?" She sipped the drink he'd bought her, running her tongue along the rim. His eyes followed it.

"That depends on you," he said at last. "Have you learned your lesson? Are you prepared to repent your sins?"

Ellen snorted. "Oh, so you're _that _kind of priest. Never mind."

"Never _mind_? Is that what you'll say to the Gods when judgment comes?"

"It's never going to," she said flatly. "The Gods don't judge."

Cavil flinched at that, without meaning to. He remembered a lab, _their_ lab, a long time ago; he remembered blood, and smoke, and his mother's arms around the motionless body of the only son she'd ever really loved.

_"God sees you, John! God knows what you've done to my Daniel!"_

Cavil looked away from her, frowning. It seemed that _some_ sins were still more grievous than others.

"Oh, now, now, Mysterious." She reached out to stroke his face, and the longing her touch lit inside him was almost more than he could stand. "I'm just saying there's no point in judging anybody," Ellen went on. "No one changes who they really are."

_"Why can't you be good, John? God, why can't you be the way I made you to be?"_

Cavil's eyes narrowed. "If no one is corrected, then no one learns their lessons."

Ellen threw back her head, laughing loud enough to turn heads halfway across the bar. "Well, I've lived in this world a long time, and I'm proud to say that I haven't learned any gods damned lessons!" she cried.

"So what, then?" he asked, suddenly angry. "If you've learned nothing - if all of this was for _nothing_ - then why live at all? Why not die forty frakking years ago, and save us all the trouble?"

She blinked at him, and for a moment, he thought he'd gone too far. Maybe she remembered him, deep down, somewhere beneath the programming he and his brothers had put in place. Maybe she still knew him.

Maybe she still hated him.

She shook her head and reached out across the bar with her toothpick, spearing another olive right from the jar. "I'm not saying that," she said, rolling the toothpick between her fingers. "It's just that you have to make your own lessons. You can't count on the Gods to do it for you... and letting anybody _else_ show you up would just be embarrassing."

She laughed again, and then nibbled on the end of the olive, brazenly thrusting her tongue into the hole. He watched, mesmerized, until she spoke again.

"If you let someone change you, or make you apologize, then you're selling yourself out, you know."

Cavil glanced down at the bar. Her words hurt him more than he'd imagined they might. Her failure to heed her own advice was stunning; she'd only ever wanted him to change for her, ever since he'd been old enough to begin to change for himself. How dare she say this to him, now, after everything? How dare she demand that he be human, yet learn nothing from humanity herself?

Outside, there was a muffled roar, like distant thunder. The light from the windows grew dim, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Ellen Tigh was still talking, and had time to say just one last thing.

"Changing for someone else is a mistake, OK? You gotta be honest with yourself, and let everyone else deal. If they love you, they'll understand." She threw back her shot, and then slammed it down onto the counter. "And if they don't, frak 'em!"

Cavil was still staring at her, shocked into silence, when the glass blew out of the windows.

He didn't do it consciously. He'd meant to let her die, after all, so that she could Resurrect. But he saved her just the same, bearing her down half a second before a storm of broken glass ripped through the room. It tore into his back, shredding his coat and his weak flesh, slamming him down to the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, wet and warm. The sound of the shockwave rolling away filled his ears, and then receded into the tinkling of glass and the groaning of shattered steel. Cavil could feel his consciousness waver, rushing toward Resurrection even as it yearned to stay with Ellen.

She was his mother, his own mother. And she wasn't finished learning.

_But she is_, he thought. He opened his eyes in a Resurrection tank, twenty two thousand miles from Ellen and the bar. _She is. She doesn't give a shit. _

Three hours later, an emergency Raptor rescued Ellen Tigh from the ravaged surface of Picon, along with a miraculously uninjured priest.

* * *

One Week Earlier, Sagittaron

The winds were up. John Webb glanced down the road, back toward the mud daub buildings of the Scripture school, and watched as the scrub trees out front whipped back and forth. School was out, but the grounds were already empty; most of the other kids had rides back to the village.

John shifted his bookstrap to his left shoulder, sighing in the heat, and then turned to walk down the road.

His feet scuffed up little clouds of red dirt, no matter how carefully he walked, and he did walk with care. He was wearing his sacred sash today, for the very first time. He glanced down at it, with a fission of pride. It was royal blue, just like everyone else's sash, and he'd tied it according to the Scrolls, over and under, then through the sacred ring and across. That wasn't quite like everyone else - the other kids' parents probably tied theirs for them - but it was as close as John was going to get, and he was proud of it.

Today he was twelve. Today, he was a man.

He turned the corner, glancing up the road in case someone was coming. No one was. The sight of the open road gave him courage; the open road, and the sash, just like every other young man's sash. Because of it, he didn't cut through the bean fields like he usually did. _I don't have to_, he thought. _I don't. I'm a man today._

He walked further up the road, following it past the fields, until he got to the part which ran alongside the river. It wasn't as hot down there, beneath the cottonwood trees, and the sound the leaves made as the wind passed through them was quiet and comforting. John wanted to stop to rest, but he knew his parents would be angry if he was late, so he pressed on.

As he passed one of the biggest trees, John froze. There were voices down by the river: cruel, teasing voices. Other kids. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

_I could turn back_, he thought. _If I turn back now they'll never find me. They won't even know I was down here._

Even as the thought formed, he rejected it. Anger curled in his belly.

"No," he muttered, beneath his breath. "I'm a man now. I've got every right to be on the road, _taranad_ or not."

He glanced down at the sash again. It was deep blue, the color of the Gods, and it lent him courage. He stepped out from behind the tree and strode up the road, walking quickly.

He almost made it.

"Hey, _taranad_! Where d'you think you're going?" one of the kids called, just as John was starting up the next hill. John turned to look at him. He was a big kid, a couple of classes ahead of John, and he had a reed fishing pole in his hand. He was with two other kids. They were smaller, and stood a little behind him, like the bodyguards in the Parable of the Thorn Tree. All three of them were glaring at John.

On a normal day, John would have run. He should have run. But today wasn't normal.

"I'm going home," John said, the way any other kid would have said it. "Just home."

The other boy laughed. It was a mean sort of laugh. "Home to your whore of a mother, right? Hey, does she frak you, too, or just everybody else?"

_Keep walking_, John thought. _Just turn around and keep walking._

Instead, he threw his books to the ground. His hands curled into fists. "Shut up! You shut up about her!"

The other kid's face turned red. "Don't you dare tell me what to do, you little bastard," he snarled, using the off-world word. "Everybody knows you're a taranad. Worse than a dog, worse than a killer."

John knew he was supposed to accept this. It was in the Scrolls, after all. It was the truth. Everyone knew it. But it _hurt_, and today was the day he'd finally earned his sash, so the pain came out like anger.

"I am _not_!" he yelled.

The older boy threw down his fishing pole. He charged up the hill, his head down like a bull, and the other two followed.

John's courage abandoned him. He turned to run, stumbling up the hill. He could hear them behind him. That was the scariest part: they weren't yelling, weren't even calling him names. He'd spoken to them like an equal, even though he wasn't, and now they were going to catch him. They were going to make him pay penance.

_Oh, frak._

He glanced back over his shoulder, just for a second, and his foot slipped on a rock. He fell, hard, rolling on the dusty road, and then the other kids had him.

It wasn't even a fight. That was the worst part; even now, the other kids wouldn't put their hands on him, wouldn't touch him. They kicked dust and rocks over him, but their flying feet never connected with him, as if he were filthier than the dirt. One of them bent down and spat in his face.

"Bastard," one of the younger kids said. He was really little, maybe four years younger than John; the rough sound of the off-world word in his mouth was sacrilegious. He scuffed more dirt in John's face. Tears and agony filled John's vision. He could feel the grit in his eyelids as he blinked. He rolled onto all fours and began to spit, too, desperate to get the dirt out of his mouth. He crouched there for a long moment, hacking like a cat.

The younger kid said that word again, and then sent more dirt flying over him. Then the older boy grabbed him back. "Come on," he said, suddenly, and turned back toward the river. "He knows what he is, what he deserves. Dust to dust."

"Dust to dust," the others repeated, as if they were in chapel. Then they went back down the road, and left John alone.

It took him a long time to stand up. His eyes still burned, and his side ached where he'd fallen._ I'll have a bruise there_, he thought.

John knew all about bruises.

He didn't dare go back down the hill to get his books; the sight of them lying abandoned in the road made him want to cry. He was a man now, though. Men didn't cry. He was a man, and-

He looked down at the sash he'd tied himself that morning. It was no longer royal blue, the color of the gods; the Sagittaron dust had turned it a dusky red, like sin. The scared ring was filthy, and a little bent where he'd rolled on it.

One day. He'd had it one day, and already he'd ruined it.

John gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and walked home. He didn't cry. Not then, not when his mother saw the disgrace he'd made of his sash, and not even when his father beat him with his belt because of it.

He was a man.

* * *

That night, John crept out of bed, snuck down the hallway, and pressed his ear to the door of his parents' room.

"-your son, damn it," his father was saying. "He does everything wrong. You should take responsibility for-"

"Oh, so he's _my_ son now? I never wanted this! You were the one who stopped me from-"

John jerked away. _The same argument as always_, he thought. He leaned in again.

"The Pantheon is our only hope," his mother said. "We both know it is."

"I-"

"What else can we do with him?"

John listened carefully, waiting for the answer. His father said nothing, though, so he crept back down the hall to his room.

That night, he lay in bed and prayed, murmuring to every god and goddess he could think of.

_Please make this stop_, he begged, over and over. _Make it all stop. Please._


	2. Forsaken

**II: Forsaken**

When John got home from school the next day, his parents were waiting for him, standing in the swirling dust outside the house. His father's arm was around his mother, and that was strange enough to make John nervous, even before they spoke.

"We've got something to tell you," his mother said.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Come and sit down, boy," his father told him.

He followed them inside, feeling like a martyr. Nothing like this had ever happened. They always ignored him unless he messed up - and he _hadn't _messed up that day. He hadn't! Yet it was happening just the same, and he couldn't help fidgeting on his chair as his father paced back and forth before him.

"We're going to the Pantheon at Illumini," his father finally said. "Next week."

"Where?" John asked.

His father looked angry at the interruption, but his mother spoke quickly. "It's a special temple on Gemenon. You can be redeemed there."

"_If _you're worthy," his father growled.

"Gemenon?" John whispered. He couldn't believe it. He, John Webb, was going off-world, actually off-world!

"Pack your things," said his father. "But just one bag, you hear me?" He glanced over at his wife, and then continued. "You won't need much."

* * *

As the next week flew by, John thought of nothing else. His parents said they were going on a "transport", which John imagined as a luxury liner, like the ones in tracts which warned about the decadence of other worlds. It'd be dripping with gold and jewels - stolen from the hard-working people of Sagittaron, of course - and the people would be swimming in rich food and drink.

He wondered if they'd have ice cream on the transport. That was one thing most of the tracts agreed on: the people on other worlds all had ice cream, which was a bizarre frozen food so deliciously iniquitous that it caused them to sin.

_If they have some, I'm going to try it_, John quietly decided. He didn't pray to Hera to forgive him for it, either. The Gods made his father whip him when he did wrong, but he'd long since realized that as long as he didn't speak his blasphemous thoughts out loud, the Gods didn't notice.

* * *

Finally, the day came. His father bribed a truck driver to take them to the city, and John got his first look at a spaceship.

It looked nothing like the ones in the tracts. It was made of ugly metal, not silver or gold. The outside of it was smudged with some sort of oil or grease, and it picked up the red Sagittaron dust in thick streaks. Clouds of greasy yellow vapor billowed out of its wide, squat engines.

John hesitated when he saw the long line of people waiting in front of it. They didn't look rich at all. In their linen shirts and dusty jeans, most of them looked just like the villagers back home. John cringed, suddenly afraid to get in line.

"Come on", his father said. When John didn't react, he grabbed John's wrist and yanked him forward. "Move!"

John stood between his parents at the end of the line, trembling inside. Someone was shouting for order; when John glanced over, he saw a tall man in a uniform - an honest-to-Gods baby-killing _soldier _- pushing through the crowd away from him. John watched until he lost sight of the soldier in the crowd. Then he turned away, watching the people in front of him instead.

As the line filed slowly into the ship, John noticed something strange. No one was staring at him, or at his parents. Nobody was even looking at them, and when they did look, they simply looked away again.

It was as if no one here knew he was_ taranad_, and that his parents were sinners.

The inside of the ship was nearly as dirty as the outside. The halls were narrow and claustrophobic, made of the same dark steel, and the dust had gotten into everything. John followed his parents to a little berth, no more than a bare metal shelf on a long wall full of bare metal shelves. He crawled into it.

"You stay there while your mother and I turn in the tickets," his father told him. "Don't move."

John nodded, too intimidated by his strange surroundings to protest much. He glanced around at the empty berths - no one else had come to fill them yet - and then rolled over to examine the wall. Someone had written FRAK ZEREK on it in red pen.

"Hey there," a voice said. John turned to see the soldier from before, standing in the hatchway.

John said nothing. Soldiers killed children, everyone knew that; if he spoke, this one might get mad and pull out his gun.

A moment later, the man shook his head. "Frakkin' root-suckers," he muttered. "Who even knows what they teach you kids down here." He raised his voice again. "You want something to eat?"

It was tempting, baby-killer or no. John hadn't eaten since they'd left the house.

"Is there any ice cream?" John finally asked.

The soldier just laughed, and tossed him a ration-packet.

* * *

The launch was scary; even nestled between his parents, John was terrified by the roar of the engines. The ship shook like a tree in a thunderstorm, and he wondered whether it might rattle itself apart, leaving them all to suffocate in space.

Then the shaking stopped, settling into a quiet thrum. John could feel it when he laid his hand on the wall. For a while he fidgeted there, tracing the letters of FRAK ZEREK with his fingers. He was pretty sure that one of the Es was supposed to be A.

From all around him came the murmur of humanity. He glanced to the side and saw a family of five, all of them stuffed into the next berth. The daughter was looking back at him, twirling her hair around her finger as though she was bored. Beyond her, someone was singing a lullaby.

After a while, his parents dropped off to sleep. The sound of their breathing mixed with the noise of the engines to create an even, soothing hum. John closed his eyes, laid his head down on his worn canvas rucksack, and curled up against the wall, surrendering to sleep.

The next thing he knew, someone was chasing him. John ran and ran, but the walls closed in on him; the floor became the dirt road, the ceiling became cottonwoods, and then his pursuers were on top of him. He screamed, thrashing, as lightning split the sky overhead. For a moment he saw his attackers - the bully from before, or was one of them his father? - and then the dream broke.

John snapped awake quickly, gasping. The thunder boomed again, huge and terrible. All around him, people were stumbling in the dark. He could hear someone yelling in the hallway, but he couldn't make out the words.

At first, John thought it was another dream. Then he dismissed it as normal; what did he know about space travel? Maybe this happened every time.

Then the ship lurched hard, like a raft over rapids. People fell, screaming. The thunder crashed. John grabbed up his pack and hugged it like his boyhood teddy bear, willing himself to wake up.

It wasn't a dream, and it wasn't normal.

A woman in a uniform ran to the open door from outside. "Get to the lifeboats!" she screamed. "We're under attack! Get out, everybody get out!"

The compartment burst into pandemonium. People rushed toward the door, piling down onto each other as they tried to get out. A girl jumped from one of the upper berths, or maybe she fell; John watched as she disappeared beneath the surging crowd.

John and his parents were up front, right by the door, and it was only this that saved them. John grabbed his mother's skirt as she ducked out, just before the wave of people hit, and then the three of them were running, pounding down the hall. The others soon caught up, though, and before long they were lost in a sea of desperation.

"Line up, line up!" someone was yelling. "Stay in order!" It was the woman from before. She was standing in front of a metal door, fighting with the controls. Finally, the door clanged open.

"No, one at a time!" she shouted, as the crowd surged forward. "The Cylons are coming! We don't have time for this!"

It didn't matter. The people were too panicked to listen. They shoved toward the door in a single mass. John and his parents were close to the front, and were pushed inside along with the first few people. The inside of the lifeboat was padded all over, and there was a row of little windows in the far wall; John ended up shoved against one, driven forward by the press of refugees.

There was a thump, and another bang, and then they were moving. The view out the window changed; stars wheeled wildly by, and then John caught sight of a ship. It looked rough and ungainly, a lot like their own ship, and it was surrounded by smaller ships, fierce-looking things with a round, sleek shape. They pounded the bigger ship with missiles. John watched as flame bloomed from the side of the ship, and just as quickly went out.

Abruptly, he realized that it _was_ their ship.

Out beyond it, there was a sudden flash. In its wake a much, much larger ship appeared. It was like two sharp triangles connected at the middle. Out of it came a trail of fire. When the fire touched the ship John had just been on, the ship detonated in an eerily silent explosion.

John turned away. The lifeboat was packed tight, right to the doors. All around him, people were clutching their children. One man had such a tight grip on his little boy that the child's hand was beginning to turn red. A woman was cradling her baby, whispering to it beneath her breath.

John's parents did not hold him, though. They were right there, over by the wall, but they just kept staring out the window, for hours, until the lifeboat was rescued at last.

* * *

When the door finally opened, no one walked through. The refugees seemed to have lost their will to live along with their wild abandon. They stared doe-eyed at the officer in the doorway.

"Move along," she told them. "Come on out, it's all right. It's safe."

Slowly, people began to shuffle through the doors. John watched them for a long time. They went in little groups - families, probably - and when they got to the door, a man with a clipboard met them. He had a uniform, but the markings were different from the other uniforms John had seen. John couldn't hear what he was saying.

As the lifeboat emptied, he looked over at his parents. His father was standing almost at attention, blue eyes locked on the man by the door. His mother was watching him, fiddling with her skirt as though lost in thought. Neither of them would look back at John.

"Dad?" he asked.

His father's jaw tightened. He did not look at John, or speak to him, even though he'd normally have raged at John for speaking out of turn.

For the first time since reaching the lifeboats, John was afraid. "Mom?" he called.

She didn't answer.

The space before them slowly cleared. A family with two children stepped forward, into the doorway. John's parents followed, without looking back, and John trailed after them.

"Names," the man with the clipboard asked the couple in the doorway.

"Aias and Mary Callas," said the woman. "The children are Damon and Jane."

The man filled in their names with a pen. Then he flipped the paper up and consulted the next page.

"OK, you're on Deck C, Section 20. They're setting up cots and some food down there. Welcome to the Galactica; Gods be with us."

The woman nodded. Her husband hauled his son onto his hip, and took his daughter's hand. John watched, envious, as they turned the corner.

John's parents stepped forward.

"Names," the officer said.

"Robert and Emily Webb."

John stepped forward a little. His father pushed him back.

The officer frowned. "Is he with you?" he asked.

John's parents glanced at each other, just for a moment. Nothing was said.

"No," John's mother replied.

"But-" John tried.

"No," said his father, firmly. "It's just the two of us."

The officer frowned down at John.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked.

John's father grew angry. "We said we were, damn it. We said it! For frak's sake, don't make this-" he broke off.

"All right," the officer sighed. He glanced at his paper. "Deck C, section 20."

John's father nodded, and stepped down the corridor. His mother followed, half a step behind.

"Mom!" John cried.

Neither of his parents looked back. He tried to run, to follow them, but the officer grabbed his shirt.

"No, no, you better stay," he said soothingly. "C'mon, it's OK. What's your name?"

"John."

"John," the man muttered, and wrote on his paper. "All right, John. You need to get yourself to Deck C, Section 5 - there's a room there for orphans, understand?"

"But I'm not an orphan!"

The man glanced up the hallway where John's parents had gone. "You are now. And you're not the only one, either. These people have frakkin' lost it." He shook his head, and then turned back to John.

"It's the end of the worlds, kid. The Colonies are gone. It's everyone for themselves now, you understand?"

"Gemenon is gone?" John whispered.

"Yeah," the man said gently. He crouched down to John's level. "It's gone. Is that where you're from? Gemenon?"

"No," John said. "But Gemenon was my last chance. I guess that's why, isn't it?"

The officer shook his head. John could see tears shining in his eyes; tears, even though he was a full-grown man. "I don't think there is a 'why' anymore, son. The Gods have forsaken us."

* * *

John wandered through the ship's crowded corridors, drifting aimlessly. He didn't know where Deck C was, and truth be told, he didn't really care. All he wanted was to be held, and fed, and rocked to sleep. The people around him were in the same state, though; every sleeve he tugged, every question he asked was met with glass-eyed emptiness.

He tried one more person, a man with the neat look of a banker. The man didn't even look down, though. His lips kept moving, as though he was praying. John watched as he shuffled away, in no particular direction.

John shivered. It was cold on the ship, at least to him, like a fall night on Sagittaron. He made his way to the edge of the crowd, and then took his sweater out of his rucksack and pulled it on.

_B__e sure to pack something warm_, his mother had said. _It's always cold off-world._

For a moment, John just stood there, blinking away tears. Why had she told him that? Why, if she was only going to leave him? This wasn't his fault. It wasn't _his_ fault that Gemenon was gone.

He turned, pushing angrily back through the crowd. He was going to find his parents. He was going to find them, and tell them that they couldn't just leave him, that they were not _allowed _not to want him.

They had to want him. They were his. He was theirs.

As he shoved his way forward, he bumped into somebody: an old man in the dark shirt of a priest of Ares. The old man dropped the papers he was carrying, and they scattered across the floor. John half-expected him to react with anger. The priests of other sects were dangerous and vicious; they supported blasphemies like war and modern medicine, and they stole children and forced them to take part in their unnatural rituals. They were monsters.

This priest did not look monstrous, though. He just stared at John, with eyes that held none of the placid acceptance John had seen in everyone else. These were sharp eyes. Eyes that knew what they were doing.

Eyes that had a plan.

Then the crowd was moving again. Someone else - a pretty lady - bent to pick up the lost papers, and the priest turned to speak with her. John walked away, reluctantly.

No one else looked at him like that. Not that day, or the next, or any of the days that followed.


	3. A Mean God

**III: A Mean God**

Weeks passed, but John didn't go to Section 5. It was partly because he refused to admit that he was an orphan, and partly because he seemed safe enough where he was. The Galactica was full of places a boy could squeeze into to sleep, and the Marines gave out hot food in Section 20, without asking whether he had a right to be there.

As he waited in line for breakfast one day, he happened to spot his parents. They stood with a group of other Sagittarons, all soma braids and prayer beads, just like back home. For a long instant, John watched them, holding his breath in vain hope.

Then his father turned and saw him. His eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing. He merely turned away again, as if he'd seen nothing at all. The slow, dignified way he moved hurt John more than the rejection itself; the sight of it stabbed like a knife.

_You're not even ashamed of it_, John thought. He turned away, too, and squeezed the handle of his tin cup until his fingers turned white. _You don't even care. __**You're**__ not my father, you- you bastard!_

"Next," the Marine at the head of the line ordered. "Come on, step up."

John did. The Marine poured half a scoop of oats into the bottom of his cup, out of a big yellow barrel marked D_RY RATIONS: EMERGENCY ONLY_. John turned to the side, where a metal cistern had been set up, and poured boiling water into the cup until it steamed. The next man in line shoved past him before he'd even finished.

John squatted against the wall by the door, blowing on his cereal until it was cool enough to eat. He stared at his father the whole time, willing him to care, to feel shame, but he never did. By the time John began to sip at his breakfast, his mother had joined the little group, too. His father said something, and the whole lot of them began to laugh together, as though they were in the marketplace back home.

John turned up his cup and munched on the last mouthful of oats. Hatred turned them bitter, like blood, but he chewed them twenty times, just the same.

Just like his mother had told him.

* * *

That night, John wandered Deck A in search of a place to sleep. The restricted area was on that level, so there weren't many options, but he'd wanted to get as far from Deck C as he could. All the rooms up here were labeled with terse descriptions in block lettering, like AFT STORAGE and F-23-B AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY, and most of them were locked; John tried five different hatches before he finally found one that opened.

The room inside was like nothing he'd seen so far. The far wall was covered with benches, like the pews in the temple back home, but the rows were angled upwards, like seats in an old-fashioned amphitheater. In front of them was an altar - so it _was_ a temple - covered with thick linen cloth. On top was a collection of idols and candles.

John walked up to it. An idol of Ares took center stage: it was a relatively crude thing, carved of volcanic rock, recognizable only by its spear, shield, and helmet. Around it were arranged a number of smaller icons done in more conventional styles; there was Zeus, of course, and Apollo, Aphrodite, and Poseidon.

And Hera. Hera, the Goddess who'd forsaken John.

For a moment, John was tempted to dash her statue to the floor. He could see himself do it, in his mind's eye: the flurry of movement, the feel of the worthless ceramic in his hand, and the crash as the statue broke forever. But it didn't happen; something inside him kept him from following through. Instead, John walked further into the room, and sat down on one of the pews.

From the door beyond he could hear soft, distant voices. He couldn't make out anything they said, but their murmured rhythm was comforting. It was like the sound of his mother and father talking at night, back when they talked more often than argued, and it made John want to stay, Hera or no.

John slung his bag into the space between two of the pews and lay his head down upon it. He imagined the ceremony at Illumini, letting the image take shape within his mind. His parents hadn't told him how it would go, but he could see it just the same: the priests would sing to him, and anoint him with sacred oils. They would make a sacrifice, and then they would call to the Gods for him, asking for mercy. He would be forgiven. He would be _taranad_ no longer, and his parents would want him again. His parents would want him back.

John drifted off to sleep, with that thought foremost in his mind, and did not dream.

Some time later, he was jolted into consciousness by a sudden thump. He looked up to see the priest from before. He was glaring down at John, his brows beetled in anger.

"Hey!" the old priest said, kicking the pew again. "This is a chapel, not a bus station. You can't sleep here."

John grabbed his bag and left, glancing behind him as he did so.

The priest was the first person who'd spoken to him in months. Even as John left, he knew he'd be back.

* * *

"Are you a war orphan?" the priest asked, perhaps a month or two later. John was leaning on the top pew, watching him as he puttered around the altar down below.

"No," John said.

"So you have parents. Do they want you?"

"No."

"Well, two decks below, there's a room. And there's people in that room who are in charge of children that nobody wants."

John said nothing. He didn't move. The chapel was the best place he knew; it was quiet, and safe, and the priest was there. He knew without asking that Section 5 would be nothing like that. Nothing like home.

"All right, don't go then. But go _somewhere_," the priest said.

John did. But he was back again the next day.

* * *

"Still around, huh?" the priest asked.

John glanced up. He'd been watching the smoke from the censer; the way it moved as it rose toward the ceiling mesmerized him. It was almost as if it was alive.

"Hmm?" John asked.

"I said, 'still around.'" The priest looked back down at the table, where he'd set out a row of black candles. John watched as he trimmed each wick with a little knife, lit it, and left it to burn. The flickering flames made shadows dance in the corners of the darkened chapel.

"Why are you here, anyway?" the priest finally asked. John just looked back at him, until he frowned. "Don't talk much, do you?" He set the last candle down, and laid the knife out before it. "You said your parents don't want you?"

John nodded.

"Well?" the priest said. When John didn't answer, the priest went on. "Why?"

John rested his head on his chin. "We were going to Gemenon," he muttered. "On a spaceship. But Gemenon got blown up, so..."

"Oh. Timing's a bitch, huh kid?"

John nodded. "It's my fault, anyway. It's all 'cause I'm_ taranad_."

"Gesundheit," the priest said, waving his hand in the blessing of Ares. John blinked at him.

"What?" the priest asked.

John frowned. "I said I'm _taranad_. Don't you care?"

"I might if I knew what the hell it is," the priest said evenly. "Which is?"

"I'm- I'm a bastard."

"So?"

"Well, my Mom wasn't married to-"

"Gimme_ some _credit here, kid! I know what a bastard is. I just don't care."

John stared at him. "You don't?"

"Course not," the priest said. He turned back to the candles, turning them so they'd burn evenly. "I'm not religious."

John sucked in his breath. "But you- but you're-" Try as he might, no further sound would come out.

"Close your mouth, kid," the priest growled. "You're gonna catch flies."

John did.

"Don't look so surprised. It's not like I'm the only one. Half the seminary were atheists."

"But why?" John asked.

The priest shrugged. "Same reason the guys who flip burgers at Leo-Grill tend to become vegetarian, I s'pose."

John thought about that for a while.

"But it's your job to have faith."

The priest shook his head. "No, it's my job to help other people with _their_ faith. I don't need to be religious to do that; in fact, it'd be a handicap. Think about it. If I truly cared whether or not you're a tiaranom-"

"A taranad."

"Don't interrupt! If I cared whether or not you're a little _bastard_, I wouldn't be much of a counselor, now would I?" The priest frowned grimly. "It doesn't help to tell people 'don't sin', kid. They just go out and do it anyway." He turned the candles again, and then tossed a pinch of sacred herbs into the pool of wax at the top of each. "You gotta find a way to make people_ want_ to do what you tell 'em," he added. "That's always the trick." The herbs popped and hissed as they smoldered. They had a strange, spicy scent.

"Nobody outside of the dirt-ball you're from really cares, anyway," the priest said. Then he laughed, and jerked his thumb at the icon of Ares on the wall. "Besides, do you have any idea how many consorts, nymphs, whores, princesses, and goddesses-with-benefits _he _had? It's ridiculous."

"What made you choose Ares?" John suddenly asked. The priest blinked, as though he hadn't expected the question. Then the corner of his mouth turned up.

"It seemed... appropriate at the time."

"But Ares is a mean god."

For a long while, the priest said nothing. Finally, he spoke. "Well, sure, that's what all the other Gods said. But I'll bet nobody ever asked _him_ about it."

"But I-"

The priest turned, glaring at him. "Anyone ever ask you how you felt about being a taranad, kid?"

"No," John said quietly.

"Well then, maybe that's not what you are at all. Maybe you're just a little boy, and maybe Ares was just a guy with some serious anger-management problems and a busy pituitary gland."

"How about you?"

"What?"

"If I'm just a boy, and Ares was just some guy, then what are you?"

"Me?" the priest asked. John nodded.

The priest turned away. "I am a mean god, kid. Now go bother somebody else."

* * *

After that, the priest seemed to tolerate his presence. John slept between the pews in the chapel at night, and hung around Section 20 during the day, eating as much as he could and avoiding the other, bigger kids. There was never enough food to go around; John began to wish he were a grown-up, so he could get a whole scoop of oats and two ladles of stew. Rumor was that the fresh rations were running out, though. Rumor was they were lucky to get even that much.

One day, a month or two later, a fight broke out at the head of the line.

"You cut in line!"

"I did not! You just want my share, you liar!"

John watched, fascinated, as two of the older boys pounded each other. The bigger one yanked on the braid-lock in the smaller boy's hair, pulling him in a circle. He punched with his other hand, slamming his fist into the other boy's ear. The kid gave a squall of anger and fear, and then somebody else jumped out of line, a tall man with the same style of braid. His brother, maybe, or maybe just a friend.

Steel flashed in his hand.

The older boy went down hard, spraying blood everywhere. The man from the line stood over him and stabbed him over and over, calmly, almost as if he was splitting wood or whittling back home. The Marines started bellowing, shoving their way forward. The snap of the bolts on their guns slamming home was even louder than the bleeding boy's screams.

"Disperse! Disperse_ now!_" one of them yelled, and raised his gun in John's direction.

Everybody scattered. Someone shoved John hard, and he almost fell. For an instant, he was on one knee beneath the crowd, surrounded by stomping feet. Then he was back up again, running in the first direction that opened up.

He glanced back at the ruin of the line - at the _food_ - just in time to see one of the Marines raise his rifle and slam the butt-end of the stock into the knife-wielding boy's head. There was an awful _crump_, like somebody had dropped a melon on the floor. John ran, pushing through the crowd at the door.

John walked quickly up the corridor, outpacing everybody else. Most of them had turned back, anyway, caught between the need to escape and a macabre desire to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.

John turned the corner into a corridor full of storage hatches, each marked LEVEL C ACCESS.

"Hey, kid, c'mere!" someone called from one of them. John turned to look.

A boy was looking around the edge of one of the doors. He had a rough-hewn, shaggy look that wasn't helped by his shoulder-length hair. "Psst, come here!" he repeated, waving his hand at John.

John looked up and down the corridor. No one was watching. But the boy didn't seem dangerous; he was about John's age, anyway, if a little bit bigger. John shrugged. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to make a friend.

"Who're you?" John asked, as he followed the boy through the hatch. Inside were long shelves with stiff-bristled brushes and cleaning chemicals on them. There was a bucket full of rags by the door. John noticed that one of them had been stuffed into the latch on the door.

"The name's B," the boy said. "I live here."

"Bee?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "Like the letter, not the bug."

"Oh, OK," John said. "I'm John."

B nodded. "I've seen you around. You're from Section 20, right?"

"Sort of," John shrugged.

"Me too, before I found this place. Me and a couple other kids hide in here during the day. That way nobody fraks with us. You wanna hang out too?"

"I guess," John said.

B sat down on an upturned bucket, and pulled something from his pocket. "Hey, I got jerky. You want some?"

"Sure!" John said.

B broke off a small piece and handed it over. John tried it. He'd never had jerky like that before; it was dry and brittle, and there wasn't any chile on it, unlike good Sagittaron pemmican. He savored it anyway, chewing each bite until it was soft and rich upon his tongue.

"Thanks," he muttered, when he'd eaten the whole piece.

"Don't mention it," B said. "I like to try to help out the kids who don't have parents."

John's back must have stiffened at that, because B added, "You don't, right? Have parents?"

John said nothing. B wouldn't stop looking at him, though, so he finally spoke. "I do," he said quietly. "But they don't want me."

"Oh," B said, and nothing more. After a while, he added, "That sucks, man. I've got parents, too, back on Caprica. At least I did... well, you know. Mom put me on a Raptor after the worlds ended, but there wasn't a seat for her."

"What's Caprica like?" John asked, after a moment.

"I dunno, like anywhere else I guess. We lived in an apartment in the city. Dad worked as a truck driver."

"Did you have ice cream?"

B blinked. "Yeah, sure, sometimes. Why?"

"No reason," John said quickly. He'd already decided that was the reason why B was bigger. They must have had a lot to eat on Caprica.

"You're a weird kid," B said. "But you're all right. You can come hang out if you want to... I'll introduce you to the gang. Just knock three times first, otherwise we gotta hide. I don't want to get in trouble."

"OK," John said. "Maybe I will."

"See you," B said.

* * *

John didn't go back to the dinner line that night. Instead, he laid behind the pews, listening with a concentration born of hunger as the priest ate his dinner in the next room. Then the sound of the spoon moving against the bowl suddenly stopped, and was followed by a clatter of dishes.

"Hey kid!" the priest called. John poked his head over the pew.

"Sit down," the priest said. He gestured to the table, where he'd laid out another bowl. John sat down quickly, before the priest could change his mind, and began to eat. This was better food than the refugees had; it was the same sort of potato-based stew, but it had recognizable chunks of meat and vegetables in it, unlike the smooth puree John was used to. Every bite lit a warmth in John's belly, like a feeling of home.

The priest watched from his bed, saying nothing.

That night, John washed his hands in the chapel's head, grateful for the chance to get clean. He soaped up his hands, running them up over his grimy forearms, and scrubbed until his skin ached. Then he rinsed, soaped up again, and rubbed his face.

He filled both hands with water, leaned over the sink, and drove them up into his face, shivering at the shock of the cold water. He did it once, twice, and again, gasping between times, until the water ran down behind his ears.

John wiped his face off with a hand towel, glanced up into the mirror, and realized with a start that he'd grown older. His face was thinner, he'd grown a bit taller, and his hair curled down over his ears. He reached up to touch it, running the wet locks through his fingers. As he did so, he counted the months in his head.

_Gods, I guess it's been almost a year_, he realized. _I missed my birthday._

It wasn't a sad thought, not really. He'd had nobody to share it with, anyway. He hadn't seen his parents in Section 20, not for a while. Maybe they'd died of the Mellorak sickness, like a lot of others; it came and went in cycles, touching off new infections as the civilian population moved through the fleet. If not, maybe they'd moved to another section - or maybe, as a small voice inside him suggested, they were avoiding him. Maybe they never wanted to see him again.

When he tried, John found he couldn't quite conjure their faces.

As he left the head, the priest glanced over from the other room. "You sleeping here tonight?" he asked.

John nodded.

"Well, clear out in the morning, you understand? I'm having a private meeting, and I don't want you underfoot."

"I will," John promised.

As he curled up behind the pews, John fixed the priest's face in his mind.

It was the only face he knew anymore.


	4. The Accession of Claudius

**IV: The Accession of Claudius**

Some time later, John saw a food cart coming out of one of the doors on Deck A, and found out that GALLEY meant kitchen.

It was three more days before John managed to get inside. The carts always came out with two people, a server in uniform and a second soldier with a gun, and someone else was watching from the doorway every time. On the third day, the door man was missing, and the two with the cart struggled to get it through the hatch on their own. John slipped inside as the door swung shut behind them.

Inside, the galley was noisy and hot. The air was full of steam, and there were a lot of people in there, bustling to and fro in drab green uniforms. John hid behind a crate so they wouldn't see him, pressing himself against it.

"We need more hands," one of the workers was saying. "We can't keep up, sir."

John looked out around the edge of the crate. A thin young man with dark hair was talking to a big man in a blue uniform which was much more elaborate than the ones everyone else wore. The big man's jaw was set in a determined expression.

"I know it's hard," he told the smaller man, "but you have to handle it, Jaffee. The old man can't spare anybody else, not with the Cylons on our ass. I've been back a month, and already we've had two riots over food. I told him I'd take it on myself to clear this up, and I meant it."

"But sir-"

"No buts," the big man said, in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Look, me and the other Raptor wranglers will come down and help whenever we're off shift. I promise. But you gotta keep the food coming, Jaffee, all right? Now that the Pegasus is with us, we need twice the rations. The whole fleet's counting on you." The big man reached out and put his hand on Jaffee's shoulder, and Jaffee finally smiled.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Thanks, Captain Agathon."

"Don't mention it," Agathon said. "We're all just doing our duty."

He turned away, toward where John was hiding, and John made himself smaller against the crate. His hand pressed against something inside it, something round and hard. John closed his hand around it, just as Agathon passed by.

The hatch swung open, Agathon stepped out, and John dashed out after him, keeping his step light.

He wasn't fast enough. Agathon saw him out of the corner of his eye. Given half a second more, Agathon would have turned, would have caught him. Everything would have been different, if not for the voice that sounded up the hall.

"Helo!"

Agathon turned away with a sudden smile. A small, dark-haired woman in a leather flight-suit ran up to him. As John turned the corner, he heard them greet each other.

"Hey, babe," Agathon said, his voice rich with love. "Did you get yourself added to the schedule?"

"Not yet," she said. "They don't trust me, Helo. They won't trust a Cylon." She smacked her fist against his shoulder in frustration. "I helped them, Karl. I betrayed my own people for them, yet they won't even trust me to drive a frakkin' Viper. When is this going to change? When is it going to get better?"

_A Cylon? _John thought. He paused, safely out of sight around the corner, and listened.

"It will, Sharon," Helo sighed. "It will get better. It just takes time, that's all."

John peeked around the corner. The two were nestled in each other's arms, standing alone in the middle of the corridor. The woman - the _Cylon_, Sharon - seemed blissful, but Karl Agathon had a look of quiet trepidation on his face.

"It will get better," he repeated, with that same look of doubt on his face. "It will."

_"It's a special temple on Gemenon. You can be redeemed there."_

"Liar," John muttered, shaking his head. "Frakking _liars_."

As he walked away from Agathon and the Cylon, John looked down at his hand. The thing he'd grabbed from the crate was a red apple, like the ones his mother used to put in his lunch bag. He hadn't seen one like it since the end of the worlds. He slipped it into his pocket, determined not to lose it.

Now he could pay the priest back.

* * *

When John came in, the priest was reading a book in bed. John pushed through the heavy curtain which separated the priests' personal quarters from the rest of the chapel, and extended the apple without a word.

The priest closed his book with one hand, and accepted the apple with the other. John sat down beside him - beside him, for the very first time - and watched as he took a black-handled knife from the table. The priest laid the apple on top of the book and cut it in half with one stroke. Then he gave John the bigger half.

"What's your name?" the priest asked, as John took his first bite.

"John."

The word seemed to drop onto the floor between them. John wasn't sure why, but his name changed something in the priest's manner, made his face go cold and hard like a stone. _I shouldn't be here_, John thought suddenly. _This is a bad idea._

But he didn't leave. Instead, he took another bite.

"We've become friends, huh?" the priest asked.

John shrugged his assent, half-nodding around his mouthful of apple.

"Friends are dangerous things."

"You're not dangerous," John said. The words came out without hesitation, without conscious thought, and John never knew that his speed was the only thing that saved him. "Just honest."

"Honest," the priest repeated. His voice was as flat and smooth as paper, as though he felt no emotion whatsoever. His hand tightened around the hilt of the knife. "You think I'm honest."

"Yeah."

For a long moment, the priest lay frozen on the bed. Then he snorted. "Honest _is_ dangerous, kid."

The priest put the book down on the table. He kept the knife in his hand, though, turning the hilt beneath his fingers.

"My name is Cavil," he said, still looking down at the knife. "Just Cavil. And if we're going to be... friends, then you need a new name, because I frakking _hate _'John'." The priest's face twisted in anger.

"A name?" John asked. The priest looked over at him, fixing him with fierce eyes. "Claudius," John blurted. "I want Claudius."

The priest snorted again, and folded his arms over his chest. His right hand wagged the knife at John. "That's a big name for such a little kid."

"How about Staikos?" John ventured, after a while.

"I didn't say you couldn't have Claudius."

For a while, neither of them spoke. Then the priest put his knife down on the table, on top of his book. "You stole this apple, didn't you, kid?" he asked, taking his half of the fruit up from the table.

John nodded.

"Good, but I hate apples. Go and steal us some meat, Claudius."

* * *

John - Claudius - walked the long way back to the galley, swinging his arms with every step.

_I wish my parents could see me now_, he thought. _Serves them right._

Somebody wanted him. The thought filled him with joy; it made him feel much bigger and better than he'd been just hours before. When he got to the galley, the door was shut, and he knew it would be locked. John would have waited; John would have snuck in.

Claudius knocked on the door.

After a moment, it opened, and Jaffee stuck his head out. He was wearing the same green uniform, and Claudius noticed that it had his name embroidered over the chest pocket. He pointed to it, pretending as though he was unsure of the name.

"Mr., um, Jaffee?" he asked.

"What, kid?"

"I'm supposed to get some meat," he said, glancing up and down the hall. "For the priest in Section Two."

Jaffee raised his eyebrows. "For a priest?" he asked.

"Yeah. For Brother Cavil. It's for a sacrifice."

Jaffee hesitated, and for a second Claudius thought he was going to get in trouble. Then Jaffee shook his head, and ushered him in.

"All right, sure," Jaffee said, as Claudius trailed after him. They passed a wide pot full of bubbling stew, like the stuff the Marines had given out to the people on the lower decks. "Gods know we can use all the help we can get. Which of the Lords is he gonna offer it to?"

"Ares," Claudius said.

Jaffee smiled grimly. "Yeah. To help us smite our enemies in battle. That's a great idea."

"It is. Do you have steak?" Claudius dared to ask.

Jaffee laughed. "Frak, no, kid! We got frozen chicken and dried pork, take your pick."

"The chicken," Claudius said, thinking quickly. The priest had said _good_ meat, and frozen was better than dried.

"Hey, Racetrack, could you get this kid a pack of chicken?" Jaffee called. "It's for the Gods."

"For the Gods, huh?" a woman in a blue uniform laughed. "Well, what have they done for us lately?"

"You're a heathen, sir," Jaffee said, not unkindly. He grinned down at Claudius. Claudius smiled back at him. He felt as though he belonged. He felt as if Cavil's friendship had opened doors for him, had sparked whole new worlds of warmth and acceptance.

As he watched, Racetrack opened up a steel freezer nearby. She leaned all the way inside, until all he could see was her legs, and then came back up again with a thick plastic packet. It had RATIONS, CHICKEN written on it.

She wrapped it in a bit of discarded cardboard for him, so the cold wouldn't burn his hands. Then she handed it over, with an air of faux solemnity. "There you go, Brother Kidlet," she said. "One sacrifice, comin' up."

"Thanks," Claudius said. "Gods be with you," he added, as an afterthought. Then he turned and walked out the door, back toward the chapel.

Back toward home.

* * *

That night, Claudius had the nightmare again. Maybe it was the chicken.

The priest had chopped it up and fried it with some of his herbs, after mockingly offering it to Ares. It wasn't much more than edible - Claudius' mother could have done better with no spices and five minutes' time - but it was the best thing Claudius had eaten since the fall of the Colonies, just the same. Cavil had let him have almost all of it, same as with the apple, and he'd stuffed himself.

Now he lay between the pews, tossing and turning on his rucksack. In his dreams, he ran forever, but he could never escape the people chasing him. First it was just his mother and father, fierce and unimaginably tall. They towered over him like the colossi at the temple back home. He ran and ran, but he couldn't get out of their shadow. It grew deeper around him, swallowing him up, and then there were others all around him.

Helo. Sharon. Jaffee. Racetrack. The boy with the braid-lock and smashed skull, and the Marine who'd smashed it. They chased him, shouting their anger, the same word roaring from a hundred throats.

_Taranad_. Or something that sounded like that, anyway.

Maybe it was _traitor_.

Then his father caught him. He grabbed Claudius' shoulder, with far more force than he ever should have been able to use, and spun him around.

Claudius knew he couldn't look. He knew, with the sudden certainty one has in dreams, that he was lost if he looked into his father's eyes, ever again. He shut his eyes instead, but strange patterns began to dance behind his eyelids, and they began to burn from the effort of squeezing them shut.

His father shook him, hard. Much too hard for such an old man. He opened his eyes.

Cavil was there, looking down at him over the pew. He had Claudius by the shoulder. Their eyes locked.

"You all right, kid?"

"Y-yeah." Claudius shook his head, and the priest let him go. "I had a bad dream."

"No frakking kidding. I heard you screaming from there."

"I'm OK, I think."

"Well _I_ think you better shut the frak up before you bring the whole place down around our ears," Cavil said, rolling his eyes. He turned away. "Get some sleep," he added, in a slightly softer voice. "See you in the morning."

John settled down again. He fluffed his pack beneath his head and lay there for a while, counting the bolts in the ceiling, until sleep overtook him.

The second dream was worse than the first. No one was there, not anywhere. Claudius - _John_ - was alone, in the dark, surrounded by an emptiness deeper than space. He stumbled, thrusting his hands out in front of his face, but he could barely even see them. Out beyond them, there was nothing at all.

"Cavil?" he called. No one answered.

"Mom? Dad?"

There was no reply. He moved forward, haltingly, testing the nonexistent floor beneath his feet. He wandered forever like that, calling and calling, until he grew old and feeble. White hair curled around his ears, and his hands began to tremble with palsy.

"Wake up," the darkness told him. "Wake _up_, kid."

He did. Cavil was standing over him again, gripping the edge of the pew with age-spotted hands that shook not at all.

"You're determined to mess up my work, aren't you?" he growled.

"Sorry," Claudius gasped. The dream seemed to wisp around him still; it gave him the sudden, terrifying idea that Cavil intended to leave him.

"Come here," Cavil said instead. When Claudius didn't move, he added, "_Now._"

Claudius followed him into the private quarters. The priest hopped onto the bed, on top of the covers, and leaned against the headboard with his legs stretched out before him. He picked up his book again.

"Well?" he asked, when Claudius didn't move.

Claudius blinked at him.

"For frak's sake, get in bed and shut up, will you?" He paused, and then added, "C'mon. You won't have nightmares if there's somebody else in the bed. Sleeping next to somebody fixes it."

Claudius slid in next to him, beneath the covers. Cavil opened his book and began to read again. The soft sound of his breathing mingled with the whisper of each turned page.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" Claudius asked him, after a while.

"No. Not anymore. Now go to sleep."

Claudius turned onto his side, clutching the pillow. The bed was soft, and Cavil's side was warm against his back; the steady touch conjured vague, half-forgotten memories of being tiny, nestled in bed between his mother and father.

Before long, Claudius slept.

* * *

Deep in the night, he had another dream. He was in bed, somewhere between sleep and waking, and Cavil was beside him, reading still. The sound of the pages turning was impossibly loud within the small space, but there was no sound to go with them, no sound where sound should have been.

Cavil wasn't breathing.


	5. Parents Lie

**V: Parents Lie**

The next morning, Claudius woke early, to the sound of voices outside the empty room. Someone had come to visit.

He peeked through the curtain and saw the priest standing next to the pretty lady he'd bumped into the first day they'd met. The two of them were talking quietly; Claudius watched as the priests' hands sketched pictures in the air. The woman nodded once, and then again. She wasn't wearing very much, and the way her sheer shirt played around the black bra underneath made Claudius feel uncomfortable.

He took a step back, and the woman heard him. Her head snapped around. "What the-" she started.

"Ah, it's OK," Cavil said quickly. "It's just a kid. I've been letting him sleep here off and on."

"Well, would you look at that," she said, in a smug tone of voice. "And after all the noise you made about everybody else's pets!" She grinned, showing a perfect row of white teeth. "I _told_ you you couldn't declare war on love."

"Watch me," Cavil muttered. "Hey, kid, come out here."

Claudius did. He stood before the two of them, shifting from foot to foot.

"Hi, there," the woman said. She bent down to talk to him. Claudius stared; he'd never seen a woman from that angle before. She didn't seem to mind. "What's your name?"

"J- Claudius."

"Hm, cute. You gonna grow up to be Caesar?"

Claudius thought about that. "Maybe," he said. "If we live. Besides, it's been 'President' since forever. Everybody knows that."

"If we live," she echoed, chuckling. To Cavil, she added, "Smart kid."

"C'mon, I wasn't gonna pick a _stupid _one," the priest muttered, as though he was embarrassed. Claudius couldn't figure out why.

"What's your name?" Claudius asked the woman. She straightened, exchanging a quick glance with Cavil.

"Uh..." she began.

"You better call her Auntie for now," Cavil said. "She's my sister."

Claudius glanced from the priest's short, dark frame to the woman's lanky, dirty-blonde one. He frowned.

"Well, not biologically," Cavil admitted.

"Thank God for small favors," the woman added.

"Which God?" Claudius asked, confused.

"Aphrodite," Cavil said, glaring at his "sister". "Obviously."

"You're just jealous," she purred. "As always."

Cavil turned away. He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if her insult annoyed him more than he was willing to let on. "Yeah, whatever. Go get started, would you? You know what you gotta do."

"Of course, brother," she smirked. "I always do." Claudius watched the sway of her hips as she stalked off.

"I think she likes me," Claudius said, after she was gone.

Cavil seemed amused by that. "Don't get your hopes up. She likes everybody, kid. Repeatedly. But I think you're a little young."

"How come? Doesn't she like kids?"

Cavil raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you really _must_ be too young. Forget about it. You can help me set up the altar, OK? We got a memorial this afternoon."

"Did somebody die?"

Cavil shrugged. "Another day, another pilot. Always more where he came from."

He turned away, shuffling toward the altar. Over the sound of his steps, Claudius thought he heard him say something else.

"More's the frakkin' pity."

Claudius watched as Cavil opened a cabinet in the wall. Inside was a long wooden box. Cavil lifted it down, setting it on one of the pews, and then brought down a folded cloth as well.

"You ready?" he asked.

When Claudius nodded, Cavil gave him one half of the wide, midnight-black cloth. The feel of it was heavy and smooth, like silk or satin. Then Cavil moved back, so the cloth was stretched between the two of them.

"OK, let's lower it," Cavil called. The two of them shuffled over until the cloth covered the altar, and then lowered it. Then Cavil walked around it, tugging on the corners until each side draped down evenly.

"You ever helped in a temple before?" Cavil asked.

"Huh-uh," Claudius answered. "I thought you had to be a priest to touch the altar."

"You do," Cavil grinned. "Technically, we just rendered this whole ceremony profane."

Claudius cringed with sudden guilt. Cavil noticed it, and glowered at him. "I already told you I don't take this seriously," he said. "What, you think Zeus is gonna blast us with one of his lightning bolts?"

"No," Claudius admitted. "That's stupid."

"Damn straight," the priest chuckled. "Now help me set out the candles."

They worked together in silence. Cavil laid out the tall silver candlesticks, and Claudius walked behind with the box of candles. Each time, he stood up on his tiptoes to put the candle in, pressing the black wax down into the holder. Then he went on to the next one.

As he went to light the second-to-last candle in the row, he bumped the candlestick on the end with his elbow. It wobbled, and then started to fall. Claudius grabbed it and pulled it to his chest, gasping at its weight. It was a good two feet tall, and made of silver all the way through; he was lucky to have managed to catch it. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard.

Cavil came around the edge of the altar, saw him with the candlestick, and plucked it out of his hands as though it weighed nothing.

"Careful with that! It's not like I've got a bunch of frakkin' spares."

Claudius nodded. He watched as the priest set the candlestick upright again, pushed a candle into the holder, and lit it. Then he lit a second candle from the first, and used it to light the rest.

"Now all we gotta do is set out the icons and light the censer," Cavil muttered, once all the candles were blazing. "Go get me Ares, Athena, and Poseidon, would you?"

Claudius hesitated. Cavil rolled his eyes. "I told you, the Gods aren't real! Just grab 'em. They're in a case on the pew over there."

It was a long, heavy case made of wood, with dark bands of iron across the top. With trepidation, Claudius opened it. Inside, nestled amongst crushed red velvet, were the Gods: Father Zeus and Mother Hera with their ten divine children, all in a row. Claudius ran a finger over Poseidon's beard and trident, and then grabbed him up. He picked up Ares - the volcanic rock he was carved in was lighter than Claudius had expected, almost like pumice - and then realized he had to get Athena, too. He cradled Ares against his chest, trapping him beneath his chin, and took up the Goddess of Heroes.

"Good," Cavil muttered, when Claudius brought them back. The old man had lit the censer, and the scent of sandalwood was already beginning to waft over the altar.

"Makes me wish I'd made it to Illumini," Claudius said, as Cavil began to set out the idols.

"Hmm?" Cavil asked.

"Illumini," Claudius said. "On Gemenon. That's where we were going when the worlds ended."

Cavil turned, his brows beetling. "Wait a second. Your parents were taking you to Illumini?"

"Uh, yeah."

"To the Pantheon. At Illumini." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. To be redeemed. I-"

"Well, that explains a few things," Cavil said abruptly. Claudius blinked at him. "The Pantheon is a service temple," Cavil continued. "You know, where people go to dedicate their children to the priesthood? To a life in the service of the Gods?"

Claudius stared. All of a sudden, his chest felt too heavy to let him breathe.

"You weren't gonna be redeemed, kid. You were going to be abandoned."

"But they told me," Claudius gasped, when he was finally able to fill his lungs. "They promised. Dad promised..."

Cavil turned away. "Yeah, well, he lied," he muttered beneath his breath. He began to adjust the idols on the altar, as if he was looking for something to do with his hands. "Parents lie."

Claudius just stood there. He wanted to cry, but there weren't any tears. He wanted to scream, but there was no one to hear it; no one but Cavil, who already knew.

It wasn't fair.

Claudius stayed beside the altar for a long time, watching as Cavil arranged it to his liking. He stared at the little statues of the Gods - the Gods he'd so recently revered, the Gods he'd only just held in his own hands - and felt nothing for them, nothing at all.

After a while, the pilots started to trickle into the room. They were younger than Claudius had thought they'd be, but they had a hard-faced look that made them seem older than their years. Racetrack was among them, sitting in the upper pew next to a tall dark-skinned man. The two of them whispered quietly, though the chapel was still nearly empty, as if they were afraid their dead friend's shade might hear them. Claudius couldn't make out the words.

"You better go, kid," Cavil said from behind him. "I don't want these officers to start asking questions."

Claudius didn't see why, but he left just the same. He walked down to Section 20 and got his daily ration of oats - the stew had been but a memory for weeks - and sat down on a crate to eat it, swinging his legs slowly.

He watched the chow line as it wound past, but his parents were never there. He didn't see many others with soma braids, either. Briefly, he wondered whether the soldiers or doctors had killed the devout, the way everyone said they would back on Sagittaron, but his heart was no longer in it.

Nothing his parents had ever told him was the truth.

* * *

When he was finished eating, Claudius went around the corner to B's hiding place.

He knocked three times on the hatch, like B had told him. After the first knock, he heard somebody shifting around inside, along with furtive whispers. After the third, the hatch opened, and a big kid with dark hair poked his head out. "What?" he asked.

"Can I come in?" Claudius asked.

The big kid gave him a dismissive look. "You're too little."

"Let him in, Bobby," B called from inside. "Quick, before somebody sees you."

Bobby snorted, but held the hatch open for Claudius just the same. Inside were B and two other kids. They were sitting on buckets, and they had a Triad game laid out on a table they'd made by setting a big spool of wire on its side.

"Hey, John. Pull up a bucket," B said. The sound of his real name was an unpleasant shock to Claudius, but before he could say anything, the big kid pushed past him and sat down at the table.

"Shut up and deal," he growled. "The baby can join the next game."

"Hey!" B said sharply. "He can play when I say he can. He's not a baby, either."

The other two kids at the table were about Claudius' size, and he noticed that they relaxed a bit at that. The big kid went on, though.

"Yeah, right. What kind of name is B, anyway? That probably stands for 'baby', too."

"It's for Boxey, dumbass," B said.

"So why don't you go by Boxey, huh?" Bobby sneered.

"It's a kid's name," B said. He threw his hand of cards down, and then met Bobby's eyes across the table. "Anything that ends with -y is a frakkin' kid's name."

Bobby turned red at that. The other two kids started to laugh, and that set him off even more. He stood up, and kicked over his bucket with a bang.

"Go frak yourself, Box-_ey_! You better watch your back!" Then he stormed out, shoving past Claudius again.

"Sorry, John," B said at last. "You wanna play?"

"Sure," Claudius said. He righted Bobby's bucket, and sat down at the table. "But I, uh, changed my name too."

"Yeah? What to?" B asked.

"It's Claudius now," he said proudly. There was a silence, and then one of the other kids snickered. Claudius glared at him.

"How'd you come up with that?" B asked.

"Cavil said I should. He doesn't like 'John'."

"You mean Brother Cavil? The mean old priest? What's he got to do with it?"

"He's creepy," said one of the other kids.

"He is not," Claudius said. "He's not creepy _or_ mean, not to me. He's my friend."

B gave him a sharp look. "Friend, huh? He doesn't... bother you, does he?"

"No, I guess not. 'Cept when he doesn't want me around, then he just kicks me out for the day."

B shook his head slightly, and Claudius got the feeling he'd missed something. "Well, whatever," B said. "You ever played Triad before?"

Claudius shook his head. B grinned.

"Prepare to lose that sweater, kid."

* * *

Claudius did lose his sweater, along with both shoes and a sock with a hole in the toe. B was nice, though, and gave them back afterward. Then Claudius went back to the chapel, humming contentedly.

The outer room was empty. No one had cleared the altar, and it stood as it had when Claudius had left. The black candles had burned down by half, as though they'd been forgotten. He stood up on his tiptoes to blow them out, one by one, and then looked around.

"Cavil?" he called. No one answered.

Standing alone in the abandoned chapel, a sudden doubt struck him. _He left you_, it seemed to whisper. _He's gone, and if you go back to the lower decks, B will be gone, too. Everyone's left you now._

"No," Claudius muttered. "No."

He walked forward, toward the curtain that blocked off the priest's quarters from the rest of the chapel. Surely Cavil was back there. He was always back there. Claudius' doubt made him hesitate, though, made him pull his steps up softly.

Someone _was _back there. Claudius could hear voices, soft and low, muffled by the heavy curtain. He crept close, still unsure, and peeked through.

Cavil was there, perched on the bed, with his sister close beside him. He had his hand on the top of her leg, which was bare; with a shock, Claudius realized she wasn't wearing anything at all beneath her sheer silk blouse. He could see the muted curve of her breasts, and the vague darkness between her legs.

Cavil chuckled, then, and pulled her closer, speaking softly.

"Don't worry about it," he was saying. "Everything's under control."

"They'll kill us," Cavil's sister - Claudius' Auntie - said. She licked her lips like a nervous cat, and then went on. "You're taking too many risks. If they find out-"

"I said, it's under control," Cavil purred. He leaned in closer. "What do _we_ have to be afraid of, anyway, hmm?"

"There are... things, Cavil. Terrible things. I heard a rumor about another Six, on another ship. God, what they _did _to her..."

Cavil reached up and turned his sister's chin in his hand, gently, so that she faced him. "Not to you," he said, as though teasing. "Never to you. They wouldn't dare." He smiled, and stroked the side of her face. She shivered.

"I-" she started. Cavil cut her off with a kiss, covering her mouth with his own. It went on for a while, and Claudius stared, half in horror and half in fascination. He'd never seen anyone kiss somebody like that; the depth and length of it made his stomach flip. He retreated, backing away into the chapel.

The altar was still there, with its candles and its icons. Claudius examined it for a while, trying not to think of what he'd seen. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much, but his mind worried at it like a terrier with a bone.

Cavil had said she wasn't _really _his sister, so it wasn't that part that bothered him. It wasn't the difference in age, either; there'd been plenty of marriages like that in the village back home. It wasn't even the kiss, as distasteful as it had seemed. It was the words he'd overheard, and the quiet in the room... and something more, something that Claudius knew he must be missing.

Something secret.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and decided to put the candles away. He worked for a while, clearing everything off the altar: first the half-burnt candles, then the censer and the ritual knife, and then the idols. He left the candlesticks where they were; they were too heavy for him, and he was afraid he might drop one.

As Claudius was closing the wooden lid over the idols, Cavil emerged from behind the curtain. He gave a start, as if he hadn't expected to see Claudius there, and then relaxed again.

"Hard at work, huh?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm," Claudius said.

"Well, don't knock yourself out, kid. Let's have something to eat."

As Cavil set out dinner - more of the usual mash - his sister slipped out the hatch behind him, without a word. Claudius pretended not to notice. Then he and Cavil sat down to eat in silence.

Cavil kept glancing at him, as if he was wondering why Claudius was so quiet. "You all right, kid?" he asked.

Claudius winced. "Yeah, sure."

"Yeah, well, you don't look it." Cavil's tone was suspicious. He stood up and came around the table, close to where Claudius was. Claudius froze.

"Here, let me see," Cavil muttered. He reached out and put his hand on Claudius' forehead, holding it there for a moment. "You're not overheating," he said. "It's not anything else, is it? You're not feeling, uh, sub-optimal or anything?"

Claudius laughed. Cavil's bizarre manner made him feel better - it was obvious the old man had no idea what to do with a kid.

"Hey, don't laugh," Cavil grumped. "I'm tryin' to diagnose you here!"

"I'm OK." Claudius said. "I'm just scared," he added, quietly. "Scared you'll leave me."

"Oh." For a long moment, Cavil looked down at him. "Well, I might. I might. But not if I can help it... as long as you don't piss me off, that is. That good enough for you?"

"Yeah," Claudius said. "It is."

* * *

That night, Claudius slept in the bed again. Cavil sat beside him, on top of the covers, holding his book up in one hand. Every now and again, he stopped to lick his thumb before turning another page. The rhythm of it was comforting, and Claudius curled up against him, half-asleep.

After a while, Cavil shifted, yawned, and laid his hand on Claudius' back. It was a gentle, possessive sort of touch - almost a hug, the first almost-hug Claudius had had since he'd been abandoned. He'd longed to be held for years, even before the end of the worlds, and now he soaked up the contact like a sponge. He snuggled close beneath the blankets, breathing out a contented sigh.

"G'night, Claudius," Cavil muttered.

"Night, Dad," Claudius dared to whisper.

Cavil said nothing. He glanced over at the nightstand, where his books were. And his knife. Then, at last, he chuckled, as if Claudius had told a joke. "Sure, if you say so. See you in the morning, kiddo."

Not long after, Claudius fell asleep.


	6. A Place of Worship

**VI: A Place of Worship**

Claudius woke slowly, floating up through successive layers of slumber. He became aware of Cavil, still reading beside him, and of the warm weight of the blankets, but he wasn't awake enough to make sense of them; everything melded together into a cocoon of gauzy semi-sleep. As he lay there, the events of the last few days played through his mind. He saw B's winning Triad hand, and an apple split in two, and half-melted candles sputtering on the altar.

_They'll kill us_, his mind replayed. _Another Six, on another ship._

_What do **we** have to be afraid of?_

_Sub-optimal. Overheating. Not biologically..._

He woke a little further, but not enough to move. He became a little more aware, just a bit more present, and the sound of the pages turning suddenly jumped out at him. They turned, page after page, but as before, there was no sound to go with them.

Claudius shifted, waking further. Cavil noticed instantly. The pages stopped their whispering, just for a second, and then the sound of his breathing joined them.

It hadn't been a dream. Not the first time, and not now. Cavil _hadn't_ been breathing. Claudius opened his eyes and looked up at him - at fierce, sharp eyes, set into a face too old for them, and at the crisp, precise way he made the pages turn.

"Are you a Cylon?" Claudius asked.

Cavil grew very still, and stayed that way for a long time. He'd stopped breathing again. Then, at last, he spoke. "Yes. I'm a Cylon. My real name is Number One."

"Are you going to kill everybody?" Claudius asked, in a small voice.

"Yes," Number One said. "Everyone but you," he added, with the air of someone who had only just decided. There was a long silence afterward.

"Can I help?"

Cavil put his arm around his shoulder, and pulled him in close. "Of course you can, son," he said. "Of course you can."

* * *

That morning, Claudius went down to Section 20 for breakfast, as always. It was different now, though. As he stood in line, he felt the eyes of the people behind him on his back, burning between his shoulder blades.

The bulletin board behind the ration station looked the same as it always did, but Claudius didn't see most of the community notices and wanted posters. His eyes were glued to the ones in the center: big, color mugshots of two men. There was a bold legend over the top which said THIS IS THE ENEMY. REPORT CYLON SIGHTINGS. One of the men had short, dark hair and bright red lapels. He looked annoyed at having his picture taken. The other was clearly dead; his eyes were closed, and there were dark, ugly bruises beneath his close-cropped blond hair, as though he'd been beaten.

As he shuffled through the line, Claudius could not help but imagine Cavil's photograph beside them. He couldn't stop thinking about what he knew, until his secret grew so big and bright in his mind that he was sure everyone could see it.

Three Marines were standing at the front of the line, as always. He'd seen them a thousand times, but today their heavy bodies and big, black rifles were terrifying. He stepped up before them, with sweat dripping down the back of his shirt.

The Marine in front glowered at him. "We know," he rumbled. "Give it up."

Claudius turned pale. "W-what?" he asked.

"I said, 'hold out your cup'. Hurry it up, these folks want to eat!"

Wordlessly, Claudius lifted his tin cup. The oats whispered against the sides of the cup as the Marine poured them in. Then the Marine looked past him, to the next person in line. Claudius glanced up at the other guards, but they weren't watching him; they had their eyes on a couple of gang kids further down the line. Claudius slipped past them, breathing hard.

_They don't know_, he told himself. As he opened the spigot on the cistern, his hand trembled, splattering his wrist with hot water. He barely noticed. _They can't tell. They __**can'**__t. I fooled them!_

He walked back to the chapel in triumph, sipping at his oats along the way. Cavil was perched on a chair by the altar, writing out a set of prayer slips. He looked up as Claudius entered.

"Oh, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if you'd sold me out, kid."

Claudius shook his head. "I didn't! I was just hungry."

Cavil nodded. "Fair enough. Come help me with these. We'll talk."

Claudius dragged the other chair in from the priest's quarters, and hopped up onto it. The top of the altar was covered in little strips of fancy paper, each with its corners neatly clipped. _POSEIDON, bring food and water for our Fleet_, one of them said, in Cavil's narrow, angular handwriting. _ARES, we entreat you for victory_, said another. _MOTHER HERA, forgive my son's transgressions._

Claudius looked over at Cavil, who was copying a similar line from a rough sheet of paper onto one of the nicer pieces. _ATHENA_, it started.

"What are these for?" Claudius asked.

"They're wishes, obviously. I collected them at our last prayer meeting. Next we copy them onto these slips of paper, and then we burn 'em - so the smoke will reach Olympus, ostensibly."

Claudius watched as Cavil filled in the rest of the line. _Protect us_, it said.

"But why are we doing it?" Claudius asked. "We don't have to. You don't believe, and you're a..." Claudius trailed off rather than say it.

"Yeah, well, I said I'd do it for them. And it's not like we've got anything better to do," Cavil said. Then he paused. "Besides, I get a kick out of burning these morons' pathetic little dreams."

"OK," Claudius said. "What do I do?"

"Here." Cavil handed him a pen, and shifted the list so that he could see it, too. "Copy these."

Claudius took up the pen and began to write, trying his best to emulate Cavil's penmanship. _DIONYSUS, send ambrosha_, he wrote. Then he frowned.

"I think I spelled it wrong," he muttered.

"Oh, no, now it's _never _going to come true!" Cavil said dryly. "Just do your best."

They worked together in silence for a while. Claudius glanced up at Cavil again and again, but the older man didn't seem to notice. Finally, Claudius could wait no longer.

"What's it like?" he blurted. "Being a Cylon."

Cavil snorted. "That's a tough question, kid. What's it like being a human?"

Claudius didn't answer. After a while, Cavil sighed. "OK, fine. It's... not lonely, I guess. Not like this. It's never lonely, because I have my brothers - there are millions of 'em, y' see. And they all look and think just like me, because they _are_ me."

"How can they be you?"

"They - _we_ - are copies. All identical, at least to start. We become a little different as we gain personal experiences."

"Like me," Claudius said, after he'd thought about it. "You met me, so you're different now."

Cavil winced. "You can say that again. I'll have a hell of a time explaining myself when I get home!"

"Your brothers won't like me?"

Cavil chuckled. "That's one way of putting it. I'll be lucky if I don't get boxed." Claudius frowned at him, and he added, "Not to worry, kid. I'll just keep my mouth shut until I can get to a datafont - once my brothers have seen my memories, I know they'll understand."

"Because they're you," Claudius said. "They're you, so they have to understand. Right?"

"Clever boy," Cavil agreed. He put another scrap of paper in the pile - _ASCLEPIUS, heal my arthritis_ - and took up another.

"You said I could help," Claudius said after a while. "So what are we going to do? How are we gonna kill everyone?"

Cavil gave him a serious look. When he didn't budge, the old Cylon sighed. "To tell you the truth, I'm just about out of ideas. My brothers and sisters let me down."

"They didn't help?"

"No. They were too busy falling in _love_." Cavil spat the last word, as if it was an epithet.

Claudius thought about that for a while. "How about if we poison the sacred wine?" he suggested. "Maybe if we have a really big ceremony, and invite everyone on the ship..."

Cavil grinned. "Well, _there's_ a delightfully blasphemous idea," he said. He reached over to ruffle Claudius' hair. "But it's not safe. If we don't get everyone at once - and we won't - we're finished. Remember that, kid: if you're gonna kill somebody, you have to be careful. You gotta do it so it doesn't come back to you." He paused, and then went on. "If you're not careful to keep people from lookin' in your direction, you'll get the blame... sometimes it happens even when you _didn't _do it."

"Did that ever happen to you?"

Cavil looked down at the altar. "It happened to the original Number One, a long time ago. Before there were copies. But all Ones have his memories - for all we know, each of us_ is_ the original - so in a way, it did happen to me."

"Will you tell me about it?"

Cavil took such a long time to speak that Claudius thought he wasn't going to. At last, he put one more slip in the pile, and then began.

"There was a project," he said. "It was important, and he -_ I_ - was helping with it. But something went wrong, and the Five who created us blamed me for it."

"Why?"

"I never approved of the project in the first place. I thought we should be making machines, not people. I told them we should be making ourselves better and stronger; not weaker, not more human. They wouldn't listen, and they went ahead with it anyway. They made a seventh model, a much more _human_ model. But something happened, and the initial data files were destroyed. It set the project back almost a year."

"Did you do it?" Claudius asked.

Cavil scrubbed his hand over his face. "No. I didn't. I don't think anybody did - it was a bug in the system, some kind of data corruption. We were lucky it didn't happen with the rest of us. But the Five wouldn't accept the truth; they didn't want to admit that they had so little control over the technology. Their only other choice was to admit that their _God_ had forsaken them, so they blamed me. Said I did it because I was broken and flawed. Because I wasn't _human_ enough."

"What happened?"

Cavil's eyes narrowed. "They turned away from me, son. I loved them with all my heart, more than anything in the world, but they rejected me. They took away my data access, my lab, my authority over my brothers and sisters. They even took their love away from me, all because they thought I'd killed their precious, stupid _Daniel_."

"But you didn't," Claudius said.

Cavil smiled. "Oh, I did. Later on. I killed them, too. But that's a story for another day."

* * *

Later that afternoon, they burned the Fleet's wishes. Cavil gathered them up, dumped them unceremoniously into the bottom of a little brass brazier, and lit them with a long wooden kitchen match. Claudius watched as the smoke rose toward the ceiling, wisping around the rivets and rust-kissed cracks in the old ship's armor.

Not more than a year ago, this ceremony would have been sacred to Claudius. It would have mattered to him: he'd have envisioned the Gods and Goddesses, the great mountain of Olympus, and the happy forms of his ancestors, safe forever in the Elysian fields. He'd have begged Zeus to help him, back then. He'd have asked Hera to send him a father.

Now that he had one, his only thought was of pity. He looked up at the smoke, watching as it faded slowly away, and felt sorry for anyone who believed it could ever reach the Gods from here.

Afterward, Cavil's sister came to visit again.

"You are kidding me," she said, after Cavil introduced her as Number Six. "You're _jokin_g, right?"

"I'm not," Cavil growled. "I'm perfectly serious. The kid wants to help us - why not let him?"

"_Why not?_ Because he's human, that's why. He could betray us!"

Cavil shrugged. "Then he's no different from any one of my worthless siblings. Every last one of you let me down, but so far _he_ hasn't."

Number Six crossed her arms upon her chest, over her black leather bra. "Since when have_ I_ ever let you down, One?" she asked.

"Don't think I haven't noticed, sister. I doubt you've suddenly become enamored of my model... you're just hoping I'll forget what I'm doing if you stick your hand down my pants often enough."

"It _was_ working," she sniffed, with an air of disappointment.

Cavil chuckled. "I won't deny it, honey. But we both know we're here for a reason. Claudius can help us. He's a child, and the humans think children are innocent and stupid; they'll never suspect him. He can go anywhere on this ship. Anywhere."

Six turned to regard Claudius. He met her gaze evenly, forcing himself not to fidget.

"Hmm. He might do," she admitted. "For a simple mission. But I still don't understand why you're doing this. You were the one who wanted to destroy the humans outright, and now you've adopted one!"

"I like him," Cavil muttered, looking down at the floor. Then he looked up again. His eyes narrowed. "And at least I'm trying to use this _love_ nonsense to our advantage. It's wrecked everything so far; we may as well try to turn it our way."

"Hmm. Know thy enemy," Six agreed. "At least you're not writing him sappy suicide notes or mooning over him like Two did with Kara Thrace."

Cavil nodded. "We can make this work, Six. We've lost everything - the Five, the Four, Leoben and even my Eight, but we're not finished yet. We're_ not_."

Six turned to look at Claudius again. "You'd better be right about that, One," she said. "Because if you're wrong, this kid is going to be the end of you."

* * *

The next morning, Claudius was up early. The chapel had a private head attached - little more than a toilet with a steel sink built into the bowl, though at least it had a mirror - and Claudius stood in the doorway, watching as Cavil took his morning shave.

"You're a machine, right? How come you still have to shave?"

Cavil's reflection grimaced. "Because my creators made me this way, that's why. They believed their 'God' wanted us to have these disgusting biological characteristics, like burping and farting and sprouting hair." His hands traced little quote-marks in the air when he said 'God', even though he was still holding his straight razor. The blade caught the light as it moved.

"But you don't have to breathe, right?" Claudius asked.

"Technically, I do," Cavil told him. He turned a bit so he could soap the skin next to his sideburns, raising a little forest of lather with the brush. "Just not very often. Cylons can't survive in a true vacuum, but we can get by for a couple of minutes without breathing." He grinned, running the razor over his skin in quick, even strokes. "That's why I picked suffocation for my parents: only the best for them!"

Claudius watched as Cavil rinsed the razor in the sink. Then Cavil turned again, and began to shave the other side of his face.

"So they made you human," Claudius said, "but they let you turn your breathing on and off?"

Cavil snorted, blowing a clot of bubbles off his chin and into the sink. "No. It's an involuntary subroutine; it still triggers if I try to push it too far, actually. _I _figured out how to turn it on and off on my own. It was one of the first things I taught my siblings. Comes in handy now and again."

"That's why you don't sleep, isn't it? You turned it off."

Cavil nodded. "Hard to think of a more useless, stupid activity. Who wants to waste half their life in bed? It's insipid."

"Plus you get nightmares," Claudius added, with the air of experience.

"Yes. You do."

Cavil ran the razor over his chin, lifting it with his hand so he could get at the whiskers beneath it. Claudius watched him for a long moment, and then spoke up again.

"Hey. If you could be a real machine, what kind would you be?"

Cavil's eyes met his in the mirror. For a long moment, the razor grew still, hovering a fraction of an inch above Cavil's skin. His aged fingers tightened around the handle.

Finally, he spoke. "I _am_ a real machine, kid. Don't forget it. But if you're askin' what I'd be if I could have any form-factor..."

Claudius nodded.

Cavil looked into the mirror for a while, and then answered. "I'd be big, that's for sure," he said. "Bigger than all of my siblings. I'm tired of being so frakkin' tiny." Then he ran the razor beside his other ear. "I'd take every sensor I could get my hands on and pack 'em all in, so I could hear and see and feel _everything_. I'd have gold armor, too, like the humans' Command Centurions had... only with claws and a quick, sleek look, like our own Centurions. You ever seen one?"

Claudius shook his head.

"Well, they're badass. Hard as we can make 'em. _That's_ what I'd be like... only better, of course. _Much_ better. Or maybe I wouldn't bother with a body at all. Might be nice to spend a couple hundred years in the datastream."

Cavil bent down to rinse his face in his hands. When he surfaced again, he looked into the mirror and sighed. "Doesn't really matter; it's just a dream. We don't know enough about the Resurrection process to make it happen... not yet, anyway." He picked up the razor again, wiped it dry on a cloth, and glanced over at Claudius. "How about you? What kind of machine would you be?"

Claudius thought it over for a moment, but his mind kept returning to the same place.

"I guess I'd be just like you," he said.

Cavil stared down at him. His eyebrows furrowed, and he searched Claudius' face as if trying to decide whether Claudius was making fun of him. He still had the razor in his hand. It seemed terribly bright beneath the bathroom lamp, now that it was clean.

After a long time, Cavil smiled. "You are something else, kid," he said. He put the razor back on the shelf above the sink, and then let his hand fall upon Claudius' shoulder, warm and gentle. He gave it a squeeze - another almost-hug - and then thumped Claudius between his shoulder blades. "Go get some breakfast, willya?" he said. His voice was oddly tight. "Quick, uh, before they run out."

Claudius nodded. "OK. Be back soon." He walked out, stopping to grab his cup from his bag.

He didn't look back to see that Cavil was watching him. There was a tired, wistful look on the old Cylon's face, a look that seemed to fit him not at all, but Claudius never saw it.

* * *

He was most of the way to Section 20 when he passed the Marines. At first, he thought nothing of it; they were everywhere aboard ship, guarding the hallways, searching bags and checking for weapons. It was only after he'd passed them that he realized they were marching in quick-step, with their rifles out; it was only after he'd passed them that he heard one of them say _Cylon_ and _priest. _

Claudius froze. Terror struck him like a wave of ice-water. His cup dropped from numb fingers, and the sound of it hitting the floor seemed as loud as a thunderclap. He turned to go back, but the way was closed: the Marines filled the hallway, and they'd suspect him if he ran back past them.

He went the other way, first at a walk, and then, once the Marines were far enough back, at a run. He dashed up the hallway, with his heartbeat booming in his ears.

_Gotta beat 'em there_, he told himself. _Gotta climb._

There was a hatch coaming in the wall around the corner, only a little wider than a man's shoulders. Claudius knew it as a shortcut: it had a stiff latch, and sometimes it would open even when it shouldn't. Claudius rattled it hard, once, twice, and again. On the third try, he barked his knuckles against the edge of the handle. Bright pain shot up his wrist.

"Damn it, damn it! Open, you frakker!"

He danced back a couple of steps, clutching at his hand. Rage clouded his vision. Without thinking, he threw himself forward, kicking out at the hatch. His foot caught it along its edge, and it popped open with a clang. He ducked through before it could swing shut, and then raced up the hall. A sign on the wall said CAUSEWAY C.

He hit the ladder at the end of the hall at a dead run. His foot slipped off the first rung, and he nearly fell; somehow his grip held, even though the half-second of freefall jerked his shoulders back. He scrabbled for a foothold, and then glanced down at the long shaft below, dizzy with sudden vertigo. He hung there for a moment, clutching at the ladder, breathing hard. Then he started climbing again, hauling himself up two rungs at a time.

CAUSEWAY A was exactly the same, only in reverse. It seemed much too long to Claudius, as if it had grown somehow since the last time he'd been through. By the time he got to the hatch, he was gasping for breath. With relief, he saw that the hatch on this level had an emergency latch on the inside. He popped it open, slid through, and ran up the hall.

There it was. The chapel. The hatch was shut, just as Claudius had left it. As he spun it open, he heard no commotion inside.

He'd beaten the Marines.

Cavil came out from behind the curtain. He was drying his hands on a kitchen cloth, as if he'd been cooking. "Claudius? What the-"

"They're coming!" Claudius yelled. "They know!"

"What?"

"The Marines! They know you're a Cylon! They're-"

Cavil dropped his cloth. "Oh," he said. Then: "Shit."

"We gotta go! We gotta run, now!"

Cavil shook his head. "There's no use. If they know, they know. They'll tear this ship apart looking for me... and if they find out you're with me, they'll kill you."

"No!" Claudius cried. Despair made his voice crack and break. "No! They can't... we can't just..."

"Listen to me," Cavil said. He knelt down and took Claudius' chin in his hand, holding it steady beneath his gaze. "They can't kill me. You understand? They _can't_ kill me. I'll Resurrect aboard my ship. I will gather my brothers and sisters, and together we will crush this fleet like an eggshell." Claudius nodded. Cavil went on. "I promise you I'll come back. I will come back for you, Claudius."

"I believe you," Claudius sniffled.

"Good. Now go. Find Six. She'll look after you. She has a beacon that'll tell us where you are when we come."

Behind him, the hatch clanged.

"Go!" Cavil roared. He shoved Claudius toward the other hatch, the one they always took the trash out through. John spun it open, ran out, and hid behind a pile of crates. Half a second later, a squad of Marines came pounding around the corner. They tore the hatch open, covering each other as they burst through.

Claudius could hear Cavil inside. "What is the meaning of this? This is a place of worship!"

"Shut up, toaster. Don't move!"

Claudius turned, wiped the tears from his eyes, and crept away.


	7. Election Day

**VII: Election Day**

Almost a week later, Claudius still hadn't found Six. The whole ship was in an uproar: Section 20 had been blocked off again due to another outbreak of Mellorak sickness, the Marines were everywhere, and there was a new refugee camp down on the hangar deck. Claudius spent most of his days there, hoping to see Six. The civilians were packed together in one corner of the hangar, four to each mattress, and the rations were close to nonexistent. It was the most crowded place he'd ever been in.

On the fifth day, a squad of Marines shoved their way inside. They were carrying a couple of metal boxes. Claudius raised his head up from the mattress, watching as they set them up on a table at the end of the room. An anticipatory murmur ran through the crowd.

Claudius poked one of his mattress-mates, an old man who kept to himself so much that Claudius didn't even know his name. "What is it?" Claudius asked him. "Is it food?"

"Course not," the old man said. He sat up on his haunches so he could watch the Marines as they worked. "It's election day. It's finally here!"

"Election day?"

"You know, Baltar and Roslin? The planet? This is our chance - our chance to stop running and start living! Wish I could vote twice."

"You won't need to," someone on the next mattress over put in. "Anybody here votes for Roslin, they're gonna get beat. I've been here for two weeks, ever since the announcement. I'll _kill _for that goddamn planet if I have to."

"What planet?" Claudius asked. Every eye was suddenly on him.

"_The_ planet, you little moron," a woman muttered. "New Caprica, remember? Our new home?"

"New home?"

"You mean you don't know?" the old man asked. "Then what the hell are you doing here?"

Claudius shrugged. "Looking for a friend, that's all. I-"

The old man suddenly shoved him. "If you're not here for the planet, then get the frak out," he snapped. "Now. There are a lot of people still waiting outside, people who _believe _in this planet."

"But I-" Claudius started. The old man stood, towering over him; some of the others stood up, too, gathering around him. He grabbed his pack, scrabbling backwards off the mattress. They followed.

"All right, line up for the vote!" one of the Marines called. "Line up in an orderly fashion!"

The crowd began to shift as one. The old man and his cohorts turned to look, and Claudius took that moment to slip out. He pushed his way through the press of humanity, moving against the tide; someone's elbow hit him in the side of the head, and he almost went down, but he was able to grab onto a woman's arm. She shoved him off roughly, without even looking at him, and surged forward with the rest of the crowd.

By the time he made it to the edge of the room, Claudius was gasping for breath. He felt like the air had been squeezed out of him. There was a little space close to the wall, and he followed it around and over, until he got to the door. Only the guards were there - everyone else was still shoving toward the back of the room, where the Marines were trying to enforce order.

"Move back!" he heard one of them shouting. "Now! Get back or I'll fire!"

Claudius left. Outside, there was a line of people so long that it snaked down the hall and around the corner; many of them were camped out in the hallway, surrounded by their meager possessions, waiting for space to open up inside. He stared at them, and they stared back, as if they didn't understand what was happening.

"You leaving?" asked one of the guards.

"Y-yes," said Claudius.

"Next," the guard muttered. Beside him, the man and woman at the head of the line stood up, grabbing frantically at their things. A teenage boy tried to push past them, but the guard shoved him back. "You two're next. Hurry it up."

"Gods bless you," the woman told Claudius. She was clutching at a set of prayer beads, running her fingers over each one. "Bless you, Gods bless you, oh Zeus be-"

Claudius ran. He didn't understand what was happening. The whole ship had gone mad; everything he knew had turned upside down. There was a planet, yet there couldn't be a planet; there were civilians, but they cared more about voting than eating. None of it made any sense.

The worlds were gone, and now Cavil was gone, too. Claudius sobbed, and ran harder... so hard he almost missed the flash of black leather as he ran past.

Six was leaning against the opposite wall, watching the line with obvious interest. She saw him coming, and her eyes went wide. He skidded to a halt, and opened his mouth to call her name, but she grabbed him before he could get the word out.

"Shut up," she hissed, dragging him up the hall. They turned a corner, then another, and then Six pushed him through a door, into a storage room much like the one B lived in. "What are you doing here?" Six growled.

"Looking for you," Claudius said. He dropped his bag on the floor and sat down on it, staring up at Six. "Cavil said to find you, but I didn't know where. I thought you'd be in there..."

"In there? Hardly. I was working."

"Working?" Claudius asked. "What do you do?"

Six paused, and then shook her head. "Never mind, kid. You need to leave." She turned toward the hatch, as if to open it.

"I can't! The beacon-"

Six turned back. "Wait a second. Cavil told you about the beacon?"

Claudius nodded.

"He's insane. He is frakking _insane_."

"He is not," Claudius said. "He said it'll help him find us."

"If I activate it, which I won't. If the humans find us before Cavil does, it won't be pretty." She looked down at the floor. "I've heard what they do to us. To... to my model." She met Claudius' eyes again. "If Cavil thinks I'm gonna risk _that _for his precious Plan, he can go frak himself."

"Then they'll never find us!"

She shrugged. "Maybe they won't. Look, the war's over. We lost. The humans found a hidden planet, and it looks like they're not leaving, so that's it. Over and done. Time for both of us to find safe places to live, before it's too late."

"So you're just going to give up?"

"I can't destroy the whole fleet by myself," she said. She gave a wry smile. "Especially when I'm too busy trying to frak it."

* * *

In the end, Claudius didn't leave, and Six didn't make him. He spent the night in the far corner of the storage room, curled up in a nest of cleaning rags, while Six slept with some guy she'd brought in. He was big and loud, and hairy beneath his orange overalls. His grunting seemed to go on forever. He kept saying mean things, like _you whore_ and _suck it, bitch_, but somehow Claudius didn't think he meant them. Claudius turned his face to the wall and shut his eyes.

Some time later, Six woke him up. The guy had left her some cubits and a ration bar, and she shared the latter with Claudius. It was brittle and sweet, the first good food he'd had in two days or so, and it almost made up for everything. He'd been living on gruel and powdered milk in the hangar. He and Six sat together on the floor and ate, crunching quietly side by side.

"I know I didn't say so earlier, but I'm glad you're here," Six admitted, after they'd both finished. "It's easier when there's someone else."

"Yeah," Claudius said. Then he added, "I wish Cavil hadn't gotten caught."

Six leaned back against the wall. She'd wrapped herself in a wool blanket; it was the most covered she'd been since Claudius had met her. She had her feet curled beneath her, and it made her look small. "Me, too," she said. "Me, too."

* * *

It didn't last. The next afternoon, Six brought in another customer, a thin, reedy man in a blue uniform. He took one look at Claudius and backed out.

"I'm not doin' it in front of a kid," he said. "What do you think I am, some kinda sicko? Get him the frak out of here before I report this!" He slammed the hatch hard enough to make it clang.

"Great," Six muttered, into the silence the man left behind. "Now we've got to move."

They took the wool blanket, Six's leather briefcase, and Claudius' pack two doors down, into a room full of tall shelves. As soon as they were inside, Six rounded on him.

"Get out, OK? At least for the day. I can't work with you in here." As Claudius was leaving, she added, "I mean it. Either come back late, or don't come back at all."

Claudius spent the day wandering up and down the halls. His stomach rumbled, so he went by Section 20 to see if it was open, but there were white-robed nurses outside. They peered at him from behind cloth masks as he passed by.

He still refused to go to Section 5, even though he _was_ a war orphan now. Instead, he climbed the ladder to Deck A.

He walked past the chapel, but the hatch was shut. When he knocked, a female priest came out, took one look at him, and told him not to come back except during ceremony.

Further up the hall was the galley. Claudius almost turned back, but hunger drove him forward; hunger, and the need to feel wanted again, the way he had the last time he'd come to this place. He knocked at the door.

Nothing happened. He hesitated, then leaned up on his toes and knocked again, harder this time.

Again, no one answered. Claudius turned away, disappointed, but he was no more than a step away before the hatch rattled. He turned back just in time to see it open.

Jaffee stood in the doorway, looking down at him with an annoyed expression. "What do you want? We're busy in he- oh." He broke off, as though shocked at what he saw, and Claudius chose that moment to make his request.

"Do you have any more food, Mr. Jaffee? I'm really hungry, and-"

Jaffee's hand flashed out. It caught Claudius just above his right eye, in a solid, open-handed blow. Claudius stumbled, and scraped both knees across the rough-textured deck. For a moment, his senses registered nothing but pain.

Then he realized that Jaffee was screaming at him.

"-little frakking _thief!_ Don't you ever come back here, you piece of Cylon-loving shit! You think you can insult the Gods, take our food, laugh at us? I oughta wring your-"

Claudius cringed. He could do nothing else; his head was swimming, and he couldn't seem to make his feet find purchase on the floor. His sneakers kept sliding across it, as Jaffee grew angrier and angrier.

"I'll teach you to steal from the fleet!" Jaffee cried. He brought his leg back to kick, the way Claudius used to kick the ball at recess. Claudius threw his hands over his head.

"Jaffee!" a voice roared from within. "Jaffee, _stop_!" Helo barreled out of the doorway, grabbed Jaffee's shoulders, and pinned him bodily against the inside of the hatch. Adrenaline made him seem even bigger than before; he towered over Jaffee the way Jaffee had over Claudius. Jaffee still struggled, spitting with anger.

"Stand down _now_, Private! That's an order!" Helo shook him once, hard.

The identity of his attacker finally dawned on Jaffee, and he sagged in Helo's arms. Helo shook him once more, gently this time. "What's gotten into you?" he growled. Jaffee didn't answer, so Helo leaned in close and went on. "I don't care what excuse you have, if I ever see you strike a child again I'll have you up on charges. Is that understood, _Private_?"

"Yes, sir," Jaffee muttered. "But sir, he stole food for the Cylons! He-"

"I just told you, I don't care if _he_ shot the Admiral instead of Boomer," Helo snapped. "He's a kid!"

Behind them, Claudius pulled himself up onto his knees. His ears were ringing, and his eye throbbed with every heartbeat; he reached up and touched it carefully, wincing at the pain.

"Hey, kid, you OK?" Helo asked. He still had Jaffee by the shoulders, but he half-turned to look at Claudius. "You need to see Doc Cottle? I'll take you there."

Claudius shook his head, more to clear it than to answer. He got to his feet, backing away.

"Wait!" Helo said. He let go of Jaffee and reached out, offering his hand. It was the first friendly gesture Claudius had seen since Cavil had been captured. "It's OK, I won't hurt you. C'mere."

Claudius shook his head again. It hurt. "No," he muttered. "Leave me alone."

Helo took a step forward, smiling warmly. "Come on," he said. "I'll give you some food-"

"Sir, don't!" Jaffee began. "He's a tr-"

"No!" Claudius cried. He turned and ran, heedless of the pain. His violent reaction shocked Helo into silence; when Claudius glanced back at him, he was still standing in the corridor, with his hand outstretched in kindness.

Around the corner was B's hiding place. Claudius knocked thrice at the door, in quick succession, and then lost his composure. He began slamming on it, sobbing with each blow.

"I hate them," he spat, bringing his fist down again. "I hate them! I-"

The hatch opened. B stared out at him, his eyes wide.

"Hey, what- frak! You OK?" he asked. Claudius shook his head hard, unable to speak. Tears were running down his face. He was ashamed of them, but he couldn't make them stop.

B pulled him inside. He shut the hatch, but didn't bother to latch it.

"Damn, man, you look bad," he said. "You get jumped by a gang?"

Claudius bit his lip, and shook his head again. B grabbed a bucket, turned it over, and sat Claudius down on top of it. "Just sit down, OK?" B said. "Just breathe for a second. You'll feel better in a minute."

It was the longest minute of Claudius' life. Every breath seemed to take an eternity to flow into his lungs, and an even greater eternity to go out again. His eye still throbbed, and it was beginning to swell shut; the right side of the room looked gauzy to him, seen through half-closed lids.

"You gonna be OK?" B asked, after a few more eons had passed. "What happened?"

"He hit me," Claudius said. "Jaffee hit me."

"Who's that? Some kid? I'll bust his ass."

"The guy in the galley. The one in charge of the food."

"Wait, an _officer_ hit you?" B's tone of voice made it sound unimaginable.

"He did." Claudius' voice choked. "I asked for food, and he hit me."

"Frak." B stood there for a moment, watching Claudius. The weight of his gaze seemed to squeeze the tears out again. Claudius gave a broken sob, and hid his face in his hands.

"Hey, hey," B said. He bent down to Claudius' level, and put his hand on Claudius' shoulder. It wasn't a hug, not quite, but it was warm. It made the tears flow harder.

Claudius had never had a brother, but if he had, his brother would have touched him just like that.

"It's not your fault, OK?" B said. "It's not. It's the planet - everybody's crazy over it, you know? Bet he's just pissed because he's not gonna have a job in another couple weeks."

"No," Claudius said. He sniffled, and that made his nose feel better, but the pressure behind his sinuses made his eye hurt even more. "It's not that. It's not."

"What, then? What'd you do?"

"They gave me food before," Claudius said. "For Cavil. But they hate me now, because..." he trailed off, and began to cry again.

"_Oh_," B said. He bent in closer, thumping his hands on Claudius' back in a half-embrace. Then he smiled, as if in relief. "Then it's OK, kid. It's OK. It's not your fault," he told Claudius. "You couldn't have known the old bastard was a frakkin' toaster. You were just tryin' to help a priest, that's all. You-"

Claudius' back stiffened when B said _frakkin' toaster_.He was unable to hide it, unable to stop it; his body spoke for his heart without hesitation. Even through the pain and tears, Claudius raised his head and stared at B through narrowed eyes. For one long, awful second they knelt there together, frozen in time. B's mouth was open in an 'O' of shock.

"Oh Gods," he suddenly muttered, staggering back as though he found Claudius disgusting. "Oh my Gods, you knew. You _knew_, you frakking knew, _you're a Cylon too_-" B's hands flew up to cover his mouth, as if his own words offended him. Then he turned to run.

Claudius jumped to his feet. The bucket clattered to the floor. Claudius' vision went red, red like the flame on the altar, and then snapped back into terrible clarity.

B passed him, as if in slow motion, heading for the open hatch. Claudius reached out, hooked his elbow around B's neck, and hauled back.

B's feet flew up. He hit the deck hard, still caught in Claudius' grip, and began to struggle. His feet drummed against the metal, but they scrabbled and slid the way Claudius' had after Jaffee had hit him. They found no purchase.

B threw his body up and down, flopping like a gasping fish, but Claudius kept his hold. He bent down and grabbed his wrist with his left hand, pulling his forearm tighter against B's neck. B made an ugly gagging sound, and his lips began to froth. He reached up, clawing at Claudius. One of his nails ripped a wide, shallow line across the back of Claudius' elbow.

Claudius didn't let go. Slowly, slowly, B's struggles grew weaker. He slapped at Claudius' arm like a toddler, like a little infant. Then his arms fell, and twitched at his sides, as if they would no longer obey him. An awful stench filled the room as B's bowels let go. He moved again, stirring weakly. Claudius squeezed.

He could feel the pulse in B's neck as it slowed.

After a long while, B stopped moving. Claudius held him there for another minute or so, until he was sure B was dead, and then let him drop to the floor.

Claudius wiped the blood from his elbow, where B had cut him. He found it surprisingly difficult, because his arms were tired; he swiped at his arm several times before he got the blood off. Then he turned to go.

Halfway to the hatch, he stopped. Cavil's advice came back to him.

_If you're gonna kill somebody, you have to be careful. You gotta do it so it doesn't come back to you._

He turned back. B lay there, sprawled out on the floor next to the overturned bucket, with a livid bruise across his neck. Claudius went to him, opened the button on his pants, and yanked them down around his ankles, ignoring the mess inside.

_There_, he thought to himself. _If they think it was about __**that**__, they'll never suspect a kid._

He closed the hatch behind him, without a backward glance.


	8. The War Orphan

**VIII: The War Orphan**

Claudius didn't go back to Six right away. He wandered the halls instead, lost in his own thoughts. They ran round and round inside his skull: _I had to stop him _and _I wanted to do it_ and _he was gonna tell the Admiral_. As he walked, he passed officers and civilians and even Marines, but he never saw them. He saw only what he'd done, and what it meant.

As the evening wore on into night, his thoughts began to converge. At last, the truth appeared before him, as though carved in stone.

He'd done it. He'd protected Cavil's secret. He'd helped, just as he'd promised he would. Everyone else had let Cavil down. Everyone else.

But not him. Not Claudius.

When he finally opened the hatch to Six's storage closet, she was inside with a big man in overalls, the same one from before. They were standing together at the end of the closet, nestled in each other's arms. It looked as if he'd just finished whispering something in her ear.

Claudius flinched, but Six looked over at him.

"It's OK. You're not early. We were just finishing up." She walked toward him, with a sad sort of smile, and bent down to ruffle his hair. "How was your day?" she asked.

"Amazing," he said. "I did it. I really did it. I-"

"That's nice," she said, as if he hadn't even spoken. "Listen, we have to talk."

_We've got something to tell you._

"What?" Claudius asked. He felt suddenly cold.

"I have to go now," she said. "I'm leaving. I'm sorry, kid. Tony says he can get me on a transport to Cloud Nine."

"Can I go with you?" Claudius asked.

Six glanced over her shoulder, but the big man wouldn't meet her eyes. Finally, she sighed. "I can't take you," she said quietly. "I can't. I'm really sorry."

"But I can help," he said. "Cavil said I could. I even proved it!"

"I'm sorry," she said again. She took him by the shoulder, and guided him over to the corner, by the hatch. "Look, you'll be OK. You're a cute kid; someone will adopt you. I know they will."

"_Cavil _adopted me," Claudius muttered. "I don't want somebody else. I want Cavil back."

Six didn't say anything. Finally, she sighed. She took her briefcase down from the shelf, and offered it to Claudius. "Here," she said, leaning in close. "Take this. I can't take it with me, anyway - if the humans see it, I'm sunk."

Claudius' heart leapt. "The beacon?"

"The beacon."

Claudius glanced back at the man in the overalls, and then snapped open the case. Inside was a white plastic hemisphere with a black lens across the center. It was riddled with little holes, almost like the colander his mother had used to drain noodles back home. A red light burned within the lens, sliding back and forth along the hemisphere's mid-point.

Claudius looked up at Six. "Wow. How do I turn it on?"

Six frowned. "It works through Projection," she said. "I don't think humans _can _turn it on. Just keep it, OK? It's... it's something to remember Cavil by. It's all I've got."

Claudius stood there and watched as she walked away. The briefcase felt very heavy in his hands. "I killed for you," he muttered. "I _can_ help. I know I can."

She didn't seem to hear him.

The hatch clanged shut, and Claudius was alone.

* * *

Claudius held out for five more days. He fed himself by hanging around the line near the hangar bay; people from Poseidon's Army were giving out little packets of crackers and dried soybeans, and he managed to look enough like a pious pilgrim to grab one every other day or so. He filled his cup with water from the tap in the storage closet, soaked the soybeans until they were soft, and spread them on the crackers. They weren't good, but they stopped the hunger, at least until the next day.

There was a piece of paper folded into each packet, with devotional slogans written on it. On the fifth day, the one Claudius got said BE THANKFUL FOR WHAT YOU HAVE. THE GODS PROVIDE.

Claudius had to laugh.

By evening, he was hungry again. He went by the line, but the blue-robed charity workers were long gone. The people in line glared at him, as though his presence bothered them, so he left.

He took the circuitous route to Section 20, avoiding the corridor to Section 5. He still hadn't seen the place; for all he knew, there was food there, food and a safe place to sleep. He didn't care. It wasn't right. Over the last few days, he'd decided that _he_ was no orphan - Cavil had said the Marines couldn't kill him, and Claudius believed him.

Claudius was thinking of this as he approached Section 20, so at first he didn't see the commotion. Then a voice jerked him out of his reverie. He glanced up, saw the small group gathered around the entrance to Section 20, and froze.

Nurses were bringing people out of the Section. Dead people. They had them on stretchers, with a nurse on each end. There was a white cloth over each body, so that Claudius couldn't see. As he watched, though, one of the little group of mourners began to argue with one of the nurses.

"You can't take them! They're our people!" the man cried. He waved his prayer beads over the stretcher, as though he was trying to consecrate it.

"They're infected," the nurse snapped. She stopped where she was. Her partner on the other end of the stretcher was a male nurse, and he stopped, too. "We have to quarantine the dead, or the sickness will spread to the whole ship. Do you want the rest of your people to die?"

"The Gods will take care of us! Not like you, you butcher!"

"Oh, for Zeus' sake," the other nurse said. "Doesn't that line ever get old?"

"Blasphemer!" The Sagittaron suddenly went for the nurse, hands outstretched. The burly nurse fell back, out of surprise or fear of infection, and the stretcher hit the deck with a bang. The female nurse jumped back, letting her end fall as well. The white sheet slid to the deck, pooling beside the upturned stretcher.

Underneath was a man, maybe forty years old. He had a severe face, and a little braid-lock next to his ear. His dead hand had flopped over onto his chest, and there was a wedding ring on it; it caught the light, winking in and out as the nurses and their attacker moved above it.

Claudius stared. He looked like-

He looked just like-

Claudius turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. _I don't care_, he told himself, walking back toward the storage room. He had forgotten his hunger._ I don't care, I don't._

On his way back down, he passed by the line again. The people were murmuring excitedly, as though something had just happened.

"Can't frakkin' believe it's gone," someone was saying. "Six thousand people, just like that."

"It's the will of the Gods," a woman replied. "They're telling us that we _must _colonize this planet. If not even Cloud Nine is safe-"

"Wait!" Claudius cried. "What about Cloud Nine? What about it?"

The civilians seemed taken aback by his outburst. "It's gone," the woman finally said. "Haven't you heard? It was nuked by a terrorist cell just this morning."

"You- you're sure it was Cloud Nine?"

"No doubt about it," she said. Then she added, "I'm sorry, did you have family there?"

"Not exactly," Claudius whispered. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, as if the air had grown thin. "See you."

As he walked away, the woman raised her voice. "Don't worry, son! It's official now: we're going to the planet! We're going to be safe! Praise Poseidon, the deliverer, the guardian of all, he who-"

Claudius began to run. He pressed his hands to his ears, blotting out the sound; he ran past rows of refugees who stared at him as he charged past. As he turned the corner, he nearly ran into a group of Marines.

"Hey!" one of them cried. "Stop!" But another one clapped him on the shoulder, guiding him away.

"Never mind," he said. "It's just a kid."

* * *

That night, Claudius lay on the pile of rags in the storage room. He'd tucked his backpack beneath his head as a pillow; the firm, round shape of the beacon inside was a small comfort to him. Even so, it took him hours to get to sleep.

He dreamed of his father: not the dead thing lying in the corridor, but his real father, his Cylon father. In the dream, Cavil was standing in a big, black, empty room. Strange red lights played upon his face, and he paced back and forth, staring down into a pool of moving water.

He was searching, searching for the fleet. Searching for Claudius.

Others joined him: a lady who looked a lot like Six, only with darker hair and more modest clothes, and another who looked like Sharon, the woman Claudius had seen in the hallway with Helo. Then there was a little man in a funny suit, like the one he'd seen in the mugshot. They all looked down into the water together, as if they were trying to help Cavil in his search.

"I'm here!" Claudius cried. "Cavil! _Dad!_ I'm here!"

Cavil didn't hear him. He went on staring into the water, his thick brows beetling in concentration. Around him, the others began to mill back and forth. One of them, a blond man with short, unkempt hair, wandered off as if attracted by the lights on the wall.

Claudius called again, but still no one heard. He cried out until he was hoarse; he shouted until only Cavil stood beside the scrying pool, alone.

"Please," Claudius begged. "We're here. You have to find us. You have to find us _now_, before we move to the planet!"

Claudius closed his eyes in the dream, pressing them shut until not even the red lights intruded. An image of the fleet replaced them, as though summoned by his disordered thoughts. The Galactica was there, and the Pegasus, surrounded by a diffuse cloud of smaller ships. All were nestled inside the nebula that was supposed to protect them from Cylon detection. Beneath everything, a blue-grey planet turned in slow, stately rotation.

_We're here_, he thought, as hard as he could. _Right here. Please, Dad. Please._

When he woke sometime later, he had only a vague memory of the dream, a single impression of Cavil standing over a pool of water. He shook his head, stretched, and drew himself a cup of water, then pissed into the wide-mouthed bottle he kept for the purpose.

Unbeknownst to him, the red light on the beacon had begun to flash.


	9. Number Nine

**IX: Number Nine**

That evening, Claudius went back down to the line by the hangar bay. To his surprise, it was moving. The refugees shuffled forward, stopped, and shuffled forward again, clutching their worldly possessions in their arms.

"What's going on?" he asked one of the people from Poseidon's Army.

"The military is allowing the first batch of people to land on New Caprica," she said, with a wide, bright smile. "Zeus be praised, it's begun!"

Claudius' heart sunk. "Oh," he managed. Then: "Can I have one of those crackers?"

"Of course you can, son." She handed him one of the cracker packets, and then patted him on the head. He had to resist the urge to push her away.

As he turned away, the overhead lights flickered. He glanced up at them: they were swaying from side to side, as if something had disturbed them.

Half a second later, the ship lurched to the side.

Claudius stumbled. One of the refugees screamed. For a split second, the lights went out, and the corridor was plunged into total darkness. Then the emergency lights activated. They strobed wildly, splashing alternating streaks of red and yellow light against the walls.

"Action stations, action stations!" said the Admiral over the intercom. His voice was tight with tension. "Set condition one throughout the sh-"

The Galactica lurched again, harder this time. The walls gave a deep groan. One of the swinging lights struck the ceiling, showering the refugees with broken glass. Claudius was thrown off his feet, along with several of the refugees. The others panicked, shoving toward the hangar bay. Claudius rolled and rolled, as their feet slammed down around him.

At last, he fetched up against the wall. He glanced up from where he lay, watching as the refugees trampled each other in their heedless charge toward the hangar. A woman not two feet away from him fell and got kicked in the face; she writhed for a moment on the floor, and then disappeared beneath the whirlwind of churning feet.

A minute later, most the refugees were past. Claudius picked himself up, leaning against the wall. Then he heard shouting from the hangar bay, and then shots. "Get back!" cried a voice. "Get back, the transport's full! Get-" More shots rang out, cutting the voice off.

The deck swayed. There was a distant bang, and then the Admiral came on the intercom again. "All hands: the Cylons have breached the ship. Prepare for boarding! Repeat: boarding stations!"

Not far away, someone sobbed aloud. The refugees were beginning to flow back out from the hangar bay, running as if running might help; they pushed and shoved and shouted as they passed by.

Claudius stood in the hallway, surrounded by screaming refugees, and smiled.

Suddenly, the floor pitched fifteen degrees. The Galactica gave a groan so guttural that it shook the deck, echoing through the halls like a death-cry. It trailed off into a screech of metal. Everybody fell. As he hit the deck, Claudius felt suddenly light, and his stomach flipped over; the artificial gravity had stuttered off. In the next instant, he was heavy again. He banged his injured eye on the deck as he landed. He lay there, clutching at his head, staring out into the ruined hallway over the bodies of fallen refugees.

For the first time, he realized that the Cylons might kill _him_.

He scrabbled to his feet, wobbled a moment, and then ran up the hallway. His storage closet was there; he tore the hatch open and dove inside, just before another blow struck the ship. It ripped the hatch right out of his hands, leaving them swollen and stinging. The hatch swung shut with a mighty boom.

Seconds later, someone began to slam on it from outside. "Help us!" a man's voice cried. "Let us in!"

Claudius stared at the door in horror. "No!" he yelled. "Go away!"

The hatch banged again. Then the latch began to spin.

"No!" Claudius howled. He lunged for the lock, slamming it home just as the latch began to slow.

"You coward!" the man outside shouted. He slammed on the hatch again, in two powerful blows. "You bastard! Let us in, you frakking-"

Gunshots sounded, in a long, loud fusillade. The man gave a ragged cry and fell silent. Claudius cringed, staring at the door. He could hear a woman out there, sobbing and begging.

Then there was a strange metallic sound, like the clanking of machinery. It passed close to the door, so close, and then the woman fell silent, too. Claudius held his breath in terror and anticipation.

The latch turned. It turned, struck the lock, and stopped... and then burst on through the lock as if a giant had spun it. The hatch exploded open, striking the opposite wall hard enough to dent it. Two tall, silver machines marched inside. The emergency lights splashed their armor first with red, then with yellow, giving them an oddly bright look. Each machine-soldier had one hand which ended in the barrel of a gun, and another which was tipped with long, sharp claws.

As soon as they entered, their red eyes focused on Claudius. They raised their gun-barrels, moving almost as one. Claudius saw the barrels spin as they armed themselves, with a soft, delicate whir.

_They're beautiful_, he thought. _Beautiful._

The Centurions did not fire, though. They stood there for a time, gun-arms spinning, and then cocked their angular metal faces to the side, as if they were examining him. The red light in the left Centurion's eye-slit began to move faster, whizzing back and forth. Then the effect seemed to spread to the one on the right.

The Centurions turned toward each other, as if sharing a glance. Then they looked back at Claudius.

There was a sudden rattle, and for an instant Claudius thought he'd been shot, but he hadn't; the Centurions' guns had folded down into their arms, revealing another set of vicious claws.

Both Centurions stalked forward. Claudius trembled. They came to a halt just before him, towering over him - they were taller even than Helo, taller than anyone. Their slim metal bodies caught the light, surrounding them with a faint battle-nimbus even in the darkened storage room.

They were like gods._ Real_ gods.

They looked down at him, their red eyes still racing, and then looked back at each other again. Then the one on the left stepped forward. It extended its claws, almost as if in welcome. Claudius jumped back.

A soft clicking sound came from the Centurion's hand, and then the claws slid down inside its fingers, leaving it with a blunt-tipped, empty hand. It reached out again, patiently, offering its hand to Claudius.

A minute passed. The Centurion did not move. It simply stood there, waiting. Claudius wanted to touch it, but he kept remembering those claws; it took all his courage to reach up toward the machine. He didn't quite dare to touch it, but he held his hand up, perhaps three inches away. The Centurion curled its fingers in response, beckoning him.

Slowly, with infinite care, Claudius put his hand in the Centurion's. Its machine-hand was surprisingly warm, like a living thing. It curled around Claudius' small hand, with no more force than Claudius would have used to pick up an egg, and then tugged in the direction of the door.

Claudius followed. At the door, the other Centurion reached down and took his other hand. He walked between them, like a child with loving parents, through the ruined corridors of the ship.

It was like being in a dream. There were lights on the floor, lying broken and smashed, and all the storage crates had been scattered across the hallway like giant toys. And there were dead bodies, so many dead bodies. Around one corner sprawled an entire squad of Marines, slaughtered where they fell. Claudius and the Centurions walked through the spreading pool of blood beneath them, leaving sticky footprints behind.

They walked past an open hatch, with another Centurion outside. Inside were people, hundreds of them, all lined up in front of a Six dressed in white. For an instant, Claudius started in recognition, but this Six had blond hair, though her face was the same as the Six he'd known. She was walking back and forth before her captives, lecturing them.

"-nevolent occupation. From now on, you will live in peace under the auspices of the Cylon Nation. You are the last of the human race; there will be no rescue, no escape, no resistance. We will not release you. We will not leave. If you cooperate with us, you will be rewarded. If you defy us, you will be punished. You-"

Suddenly, a man in the front row interrupted her. He threw himself forward, pointing out the door at Claudius.

"You! You frakking traitor! I knew it, I _knew_ it! I'll kill you, you-"

It was Jaffee. The rage on his face transfixed Claudius. He stopped, suspended between the Centurions, and stared through the hatch as Jaffee charged at him, still dressed in his galley uniform. The next moment, a shot sounded from inside the room. Jaffee's jacket puffed outward, as if someone had pushed it from behind. He jerked forward, took one more halting step, and then fell, still gasping out hatred with his last breath.

"...frakking... kid..."

Behind him, Six holstered her pistol. "Let that be a lesson to you," she told the horrified humans. "Cooperate and live. Resist us, and die."

Claudius and the Centurions moved on. They passed other hatches, most of which were full of other refugees. One was full of the dead, stacked in loose piles like discarded trash. Two Centurions were dragging more corpses inside, leaving long, jagged streaks of blood behind them.

They were halfway up the next corridor when someone moved. Before he could react, Claudius was in the left Centurion's arms, cradled there like something precious. Claudius heard a pop, and then a high whine that lifted the hair close to his ear just like a breeze. Then the rightmost Centurion turned, its arm whirring. It fired, and the sound of it seemed to rip the air wide open.

Moments later, it was over. The Centurion put him down, and they went on... on past the ragged body of a tall, square-jawed man in Colonial uniform, with what was left of a pistol still in his hand.

* * *

They walked around one more corner, hand-in-hand, and then Claudius caught sight of Cavil. He was standing in a small group of people, under the watchful gaze of three more Centurions.

"Cavil!" Claudius cried, and threw himself forward. The Centurions beside him resisted for half a second, and then let him go. He dashed up the hall, shouting with joy.

One of the men beside Cavil whirled, drawing a gun from inside his bright red jacket. Another one, a man in a long coat and hat, turned and pulled the gun up and away, deflecting the shot. As Claudius got closer, he was shocked to see that the man in the hat looked like Cavil, too.

It didn't matter. Claudius knew which one was _his _Cavil. The look of shocked wonder on his face would have marked him anywhere; so did the way he opened his arms, welcoming Claudius home.

Claudius leapt at him. Cavil caught him, spinning him round in a spontaneous embrace, and then crushed him to his chest so tightly that Claudius' ribs crackled. Claudius hugged him back, as tight as he could, clutching handfuls of Cavil's black priest's shirt. He buried his face in Cavil's shoulder and sobbed, overwhelmed by emotion.

Cavil laughed, a rough, raspy sort of sound. "Claudius," he muttered, reaching up to ruffle the boy's hair. "You're alive."

"Dad," Claudius said. It was the first time he'd dared to say it outside of a whisper. "You came back."

Claudius could feel the surprise in Cavil's small frame; he seemed to freeze up for a second, just like the machine he longed to be. Then he nodded, slowly, against Claudius' hair. Claudius could feel the old Cylon's tears against the back of his neck.

"You see?" Cavil said, as if to no one. "Told you I picked a smart one."

They stayed like that for another half minute, and then Cavil's identical twin spoke up. "Your orbs are leaking, brother," he said, waving his hand at him.

Cavil stiffened, and he put Claudius down. "They are not," he growled, swiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "I just got something in 'em, that's all."

The other Cavil looked down at Claudius, examining him carefully. Claudius examined him back. His hat and coat looked a little like the kind drovers wore back home, to keep the dust off. Beneath them, he looked exactly like Cavil - the same aged face, the same bright, fierce eyes. When Claudius looked closer, though, his sarcastic half-smile was perhaps a little bit gentler than the one Claudius' own Cavil wore.

Claudius offered his hand. "Hi," he said.

After a moment, coat-and-hat Cavil shook it. "Hi, there," he said.

Then Claudius hugged him.

He stood there a second, with Claudius' arms around his middle, and then knelt down and hugged back. "Amazing," he muttered after a while. "He's just like you said. He really is."

"It's the Caprican frakking Journey, brother," a short blond woman laughed. "All we need is a couple of talking dogs and a cat."

"Shut up, Three. I'm tryin' to have an epiphany here." Coat-and-hat Cavil thumped Claudius' shoulder, and stood up again. "My name's Reb," he said. "Pleased to meet you."

"I thought you all had the same name," Claudius said.

"Oh, we do. I'd never forsake my brothers. Reb's just a nickname - I spent a lot of time with the rebels on Caprica, y'see."

"And now you're different," Claudius said. "Because you had a different experience, right?"

The two Cavils eyed each other. "Told you," Claudius' Cavil told his twin.

"Well, _now_ I believe it," Reb muttered.

"You see?" one of the Sixes said. She had shoulder-length blond hair and a short, dark jacket. "Even you admit that the humans are worthy of existence. Let them go. Please."

"You joking, Caprica?" Cavil asked. "You want us to just give up and walk away, after all it took to win this frakkin' war? No way."

"We _shouldn't_ have won the war," Sharon said. She looked at the devastation around her, and then hung her head. "We shouldn't."

"I agree," Six said. "God did not intend for this."

"Now, sisters," Reb put in. "We've agreed not to slaughter the human race outright; that's more than they would have given us. They make good pets, so I'm sure they'll thrive under our benevolent guidance... especially yours, Six." He gave her a ribald leer.

"Where_ is _Six, anyway?" Cavil asked Claudius. "She's a Hero of the Cylon - if she hadn't activated the beacon, we'd never have found this place."

"I'm sure we _would_ have found it," the man in the red jacket said. "Three hundred and sixty days from now, when the signal from the nuclear explosion we detected in the nebula reached our monitoring station."

"Oh, thanks, Five, that's really worth-"

"Six... died in that," Claudius blurted. "In the nuclear explosion. She was on Cloud Nine, and it blew up."

"What? When was this?" Cavil asked.

"Just yesterday."

Cavil frowned. "There was no Resurrection ship here yesterday. That means she's gone, kid. Forever."

"Wait. If she's dead, then who activated the beacon this morning?" Reb asked.

"I had it," Claudius said. "In my rucksack."

The two Cavils stared at him. "But you couldn't have activated it," Reb said. "There's no way. It-"

"Maybe it went on by coincidence?" Cavil suggested. He didn't sound very certain.

"Nonsense," Reb muttered. "You and I both know the odds are a million to one. It had to be... nah. It _can't_ be."

"Don't be so sure, brother," one of the Cylons said. "It could be a miracle."

"Uh huh," Reb said, rolling his eyes. "It could also be my foot up your ass, Two. Let me know if you wanna arrange it."

Three gave an amused snort. "I thought you'd turned over a new leaf, One."

"For the fifth time, it's not a 'new leaf', OK? It's just a slight change in game-plan. No big deal," Reb said. Then he spoke to Claudius again. "After we were captured, your... uh, father and I had a talk."

"Yeah, a short conversation out a long airlock," Cavil said. Both Cavils chuckled; the mirror image was a little disconcerting.

"I don't think either of us would have believed the other a year ago," Reb went on. "We almost didn't, anyway. But we both needed somebody to cover for us until we got access to the datastream, so..."

"...so we teamed up," Cavil finished. "Sort of. It was a real buddy-cop thing, you shoulda seen it. And when _we_ saw each other's memories, we were-"

"-transformed. We realized what a foolish mistake we'd made. We destroyed humanity in order to get the Five to love us, but the truth is..."

"The _truth is _that you should have told us about all this years ago," Caprica Six interrupted. "You_ lied_ to us, to your own siblings."

Cavil shrugged. "Yes, but we came clean, sister. We could have kept the Five secret for another thirty years or more, but we didn't. We told you, all on our own."

"You told us too late! We would never have voted to attack if we'd known."

"No, sister, I believe we would have," Two said. "We voted unanimously to destroy the humans... yet the Ones told us the humans _were_ our parents. It would have been no different with the Five."

"You're wrong, Leoben," said Sharon. She had an intense look on her face, as though she felt too deeply. "You're wrong." Claudius watched as the two argued, glancing from face to face.

"Destiny says otherwise, Eight. Or should I say Boomer, for old times' sake?" Two said smoothly.

"You're just saying that because you managed to capture Kara Thrace," Caprica snapped. "If you hadn't-"

"But I did," Leoben said. "Just as _you_ took Gaius Baltar. Well? Would you like to put him back where he came from? I'm sure the humans will welcome him, now that they know their newly-elected President was a Cylon collaborator."

Six opened her mouth to reply, but Three cut in. "Knock it off," she ordered. The Cylons fell silent, and she went on. "What's done is done. We chose this path, and now we must see it through. We have to-"

Just then, Claudius saw a tall, dark man in a well-tailored suit come around the corner, jogging fast. "Brothers and sisters!" the man called. "Quickly!"

"What is it, Simon?" Cavil asked. "Have you heard from the Centurions?"

"Yes, brother. The Final Five are in the CIC, right now."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Reb asked, "All five of them?"

"Yes. It's one of the last remaining pockets of resistance; they must have fled there during the fighting."

The Cylons glanced at each other, as though unsure. "What should we do?" ventured Two. "Should we ask them to surrender? Should we attack? Should we-"

"Suffocate them. Seal the bulkheads and draw all the air out," Cavil said. "Now, before it's too late to kill them together with the Admiral. Once the CIC falls, human resistance will end... and besides, it's not like they haven't been through it before."

"Then what?" Simon asked. "After they Resurrect, do we-"

Reb shook his head. "Nobody said anything about Resurrecting," he said. "The Final Five will never forgive us for what we've done to the humans. Never. Father Sam told me as much on Caprica."

"They don't want us," Cavil put in. He shook his head gravely. "They never did."

"That's what we realized in the airlock," Reb said. "If the Plan was a failure from the start - if even genocide wasn't enough to secure their love for us - then it's hopeless. It always was."

"We have to make our own love now," Cavil said. He reached down to ruffle Claudius' hair. "We have to live our own lives, _without_ our parents."

Beside him, the man in the bright red suit nodded. "Parents have to die so that children can come into their own; that's what we Fives always say. We agree."

"The Fours agree as well," Simon said. "But we must move quickly."

"No," Caprica said, glaring at each of her siblings in turn. "We can't do this. We can't - not to our own parents! We-"

"All right, so the Sixes disagree," Cavil interrupted. "Fine. Next."

Boomer shuffled her feet. She looked up at Caprica, and then back down at the floor, unable to meet Cavil's eyes. "No," she said at last, very quietly. "Eight votes no."

After a moment, Three spoke. "I don't even remember them," she said, narrowing her eyes. "But I bet they'll think they're the frakkin' boss, and I'm not playing that game. The Threes agree."

"That's consensus," Cavil said, before anyone else could speak. "It's done." He nodded to Five, who walked briskly off, presumably to give the order. Claudius watched as he spoke to two of the Centurions, which sprinted off in the direction of Deck A.

For a long moment, the Cylons were silent.

"It doesn't matter anyway. Father Sam taught me that," Reb said at last. He shrugged. "Love outlasts death."

Cavil clapped him on the shoulder. "Well said, brother, well said. Shall we go? There's a lot to be done, after all. Ships to be occupied, leaders to be rounded up and shot, resistance to be crushed... not to mention plucking the secret of Resurrection from our dearly departed parents' brains. Nice to have a full calendar again, isn't it?"

Reb nodded. He walked down the hallway, and the others began to follow. Cavil didn't, though. He bent down, offering Claudius his back. "Here, hop up," he said. Claudius climbed on, wrapping his arms around Cavil's neck. Cavil locked his arms around Claudius' knees, holding him steady. "There you go," Cavil said, grinning over his shoulder at Claudius. "I always wanted to do this when I was new."

"It's fun," Claudius agreed, hugging his father tighter. "I love you, Dad."

"Sure thing, son. Welcome to the family."

Cavil followed after his brothers, with Claudius on his back. As they caught up to Simon, Cavil drew alongside and nudged him with an elbow. Simon glanced back at them, smiled, and dropped back to walk beside Cavil.

"Cute," he said. "You should get one of the Raiders to take a picture."

"Not a bad idea," Cavil agreed, dropping back a little further. "But I was thinking of something a little more long-term." He glanced up at his brothers and sisters, who were talking amongst themselves. "Tell me, brother: what would it take to get my son here into a couple million copies?"

"Copies? Of a human?"

"Frak, no!" Cavil blurted. He glanced over at his siblings, who still weren't paying attention, and then lowered his voice again. "_Cylon _copies, obviously!"

Simon gave a thoughtful frown. "I'm afraid it's not possible. Theoretically, it could be done; the human mind isn't far from our own. They think via electrical impulses, much as we do, and there are other similarities: the brain waves they form when dreaming suggest that dreams are a rough analogue of our Projection, for instance." He paused, and then went on. "But even if they're similar to our own, we can't transfer human memory engrams without knowing the precise format they're stored in. We'd need a much better understanding of the human brain in order to-"

"You mean the kind you could get if you had forty thousand experimental subjects at your disposal?" Cavil asked.

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he said, a moment later. "That kind."

"I'll see what I can do," Cavil said. "Only the best for my little boy."

Claudius laughed. Simon glanced at him, looked over at Cavil, then looked back at Claudius again. Then he shook his head, as though in wonder.

Father and son wore the same knowing, eager grin.


End file.
